


Breathe

by Everlind



Series: Young Folks verse [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Human, Biting, Explicit Language, Frottage, Humanstuck, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2017-12-30 18:47:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Wow," your laugh is more air than sound, disjoined. "Wow. Really?"</p><p>"Yes," John's laughing, too. "Next week, Karkat. Next <i>week</i>."</p><p>Next week. You get to see him next week. Next week you'll get to see that perfectly imperfect toothy smile of his. See him and touch him and- oh wow. John will be here next week. He'll be here with you. John made this happen. "Fuck you," you tell him, smiling.</p><p>"Jerk," he answers, but it sounds soft and sweet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

On Thursday at about eight in the evening the doorbell rings. Thinking Gamzee forgot his keys (again) you grudgingly heave yourself out of the couch and trudge towards the door. Open it to find yourself looking at not Gamzee, but Dave Strider slouching against doorframe, all studied nonchalance.

He's got two six-packs of beer tucked under an arm and bright red headphones looped around his neck.

"Sup," he says, bobbing his head and loping inside.

You frown. "The fuck are you doing here?" you ask, pushing the door shut behind you.

"I missed you, too, babe," he grunts as he throws himself down on the couch, propping his feet up all nice and easy. Making himself at home.

"Shoes," you snap. Dave changes the channel. You punch the back of his head. "Take off your goddamn shoes before I have Kanaya saw your useless legs off, shitface." 

Sighing dramatically he plucks at the laces and kicks them off. "Touchy, touchy."

"You're an impolite swine, Strider," you tell him as you round the coffee table to join him. Asshole stole your spot, too. You wriggle down to make yourself comfortable, shifting, and Dave drops his head on your shoulder. Taken aback you peer at the side of his face. He's pale and wan looking, his white blonde hair a mess. As if able to sense your mounting concern, Dave pinches your arm and asks if you'd like a beer.

"Sure," you agree after a moment and watch him jerk upright to crack two out of the pack. After handing one to you he pauses, seems to consider, and takes off his aviator shades. Sets them on the table.

There's dark smudges under his eyes and the whites are shot red, as if his irises are watercolors bleeding on wet paper. The two of you clink your cans together and take a swallow. It's almost tepid, yuck, but hey, free beer. Both of you finish the first one in silence, staring blearily at the TV. You feel it in your head almost right away. You don't drink often, loathe to relinquish your control in any way whatsoever and it doesn't help that you skipped dinner. And lunch.

Dave places his head back on your shoulder after getting himself a second can, leans into you. 

"I don't envy you," he says suddenly, softly. You peer at the top of his head, confused. "With John all the way in Seattle," he clarifies.

_John…_

Shit, you really fucking hope he hasn't come here to rub in the fact that there's five states between you and your boyfriend. Between you and the boyfriend you haven't seen in a month in a half in any other way than through a crappy Skype window. Missing John this constant, maddening ache you can't alleviate.  

"Wow, thanks for reminding me," you snap and you can feel it swelling again, crowding your rational thoughts aside, a gaping hollow becoming a yawning chasm of absence.

Dave exhales. "I miss Jade."

Ah.

Of course. Begin of September she went back to Seattle and the month is almost gone.

"She's coming back next week," you tell him.

"I know," Dave answers. "I still miss her."

Part of you wants to toss his insensitive ass down the garbage disposal because fuck you, you piece of shit, you don't even know when you'll see John again. In the pit of your stomach the beer churns uneasily and your vision swims. Drinking any more is an absolutely horribad idea. You wrench open a fresh can.

The first six-pack is gone and you got an arm around Dave, who's slumped against you slurring his words with his cheek smooched against your shirt.

"She's the one, man," he's saying. "I love her. The flying hearts, symphony music, cinematic sunset, true love will break the curse, happily ever after kind."

Maybe you're doing it wrong. When you think of John you feel like someone's kicking you right in the heart when you're already down and all you want to do is huddle to protect what's left.

"It fucking _hurts_ ," Dave adds, quite miserably. And, yes, that sounds about right after all.

"I know," you answer.

The whirlwind that is your relationship with John has you quite at loss. The two of you went about it backwards, kiss and get naked first, confess feelings after. Move halfway across the world (not really but it feels like that) and accumulate hours of conversation through grainy webcam images. John's still an annoying dork, a bit of an asshole at times and way too fucking happy, but all the two of you could do was talk and get to know each other.

And you did. Talk. Late into the night until you had to yell at him before he'd concede to go to bed because he had classes in the morning. Sometimes the two of you just sit together as he studies, hardly exchanging a handful of words, but content in the illusion of having one another's company. Often you stream movies together, bashing each other's choices with vindictive enthusiasm and enjoying every single damn moment of it. Hours and hours you've talked to John, precious minutes to catalogue each and every expression he makes, file them away in a corner of your mind for later reference. Learning what kind of person he really is, how he acts and reacts and thinks and functions, his likes and dislikes, fears and dreams.

It's not enough. You don't think it'll ever be enough.

John Egbert is positively infuriating and yet he's the most beautiful and precious thing you've ever seen. All you want is to put your arms around him and hold him, hold everything he is and sink into it so you'll never have to leave, sink into the bright smiles, the impulsive freedom, careless brazenness and the covert but steady strength. He pisses you off and he makes you smile, stupid idiot that he is, and you miss him so fucking much you want to crawl through your goddamn computer screen.

"Dave," you murmur. Your voice sounds thick, sluggish. You're not quite drunk yet. Getting there though.

"Hng?" Dave goes. He's definitely drunk. Seems to be an emotional drunk, too, rather like yourself.

"Are you okay with… it?"

"Define it, bro. There's a lot of its in the world. Better not be an alien murderclown sort of it. I'm not okay with that sort of it."

"Me and John, crotchrot." 

Dave groans, lifts his head a little and lets it bonk into your ribs. "Stop being so insecure and… and all… stuff."

"Wow. All stuff. Suddenly everything becomes clear to me."

"No, seriously. Stop running after everybody wiping their asses for them and freaking out. Fuck. Think of yourself for once."

You frown.

"Holy flying fuck, yes, Karkat, I'm _okay_ with it," Dave exclaims. "You can fucking stop tiptoeing around me like I might break if you so much as think about John."

Swallowing, you nod a little. He's right. You know he's right. But you feel better for _hearing_ it. "I miss John," you offer lamely. Like it isn't totally obvious.

"Yeah, I miss the bucktoothed wonder, too," Dave agrees. 

Half an hour later you finish your fourth beer and you're quite successfully drunk. You've been petting Dave's hair rather like you'd pet a cat. Only he doesn't purr. Just drools copiously on your shirt. It's absolutely disgusting and you do not give a fuck. You're fresh out of fucks. Seriously, the world can go fuck itself, all you want to do is stare at the TV and continue not comprehending a single damn thing that's flashing across the screen.

"Fuck, you two, what the hell?" 

Both you and Dave manage to tilt your head towards the sound. Sollux is watching the both of you ooze on the couch in your puddle of self-pity with open disgust. Hypocrite. You can't remember how many times you had to kick his skinny ass out of a funk and he's judging _you_? Tch.

You figure you actually make that noise out loud, because Sollux rolls his eyes. His brown hair is on end and he's got a speck of something in the middle of his chest so it looks like he's got a third nipple. You wish you had a camera. Eridan would probably pay hard cash for a visual.

"We're missing our… our…" Dave gropes for a word and comes up with: "Boyfriends."

Just as you peer down at him in consternation, Sollux says: "Is there something we need to know about JD?"

"Naw, man. She's all lady. Just. Who d'ya think wears the pants in this relationship?"

"Whipped," you say, prodding his cheek.

"I love it," Dave smiles dopily. "Sometimes she ties me to the headboard."

"Okay, I think it's time for DV to go home," Sollux says rather loudly. "KK are you drunk?"

"No," you lie.

Sollux stares you down.

"…maybe."

A big sigh. Sollux retreats to his room and comes back out wearing a shirt. For all his skeletal frame, Sollux packs more power than you'd think. After tying the laces of Dave's shoes together and hanging them around his neck he all but hauls Dave out of the couch, tucking him against his side. Dave drools on his neck instead. "Keys?" Sollux asks.

You point helpfully at a hoodie of yours draped over a chair.

As Sollux fishes for them Dave slurs: "John misses you, too, man. Fuggin… er… hm… fuckin' all he ever talks about is you. Karkat this, Karkat that. Bluh bluh. And he's real sorry he didn't suck your dick. The sorriest."

"Oh my god, DV," Sollux sighs, cupping a hand over his mouth. Dave muffles some more against his palm and you feel cheated of further precious knowledge.

John wants to- 

Wow. 

Oh wow.

"KK," Sollux snaps loudly, demanding your attention, which is lodged firmly at your nether regions and reluctant to process any other sort of information. "Sit the fuck right where you are until I get back. Don't fucking _move_. Don't go anywhere. Don't talk to John, you'll hate yourself after. Okay?"

"Yeah," you agree blearily. 

"KK."

"Okay. No moving. If I piss on the couch you're cleaning it," you say and snort.

Dave snorts, too, but it's a messy saliva enriched experience against the palm of Sollux' hand. Sollux makes a long-suffering face, hitches Dave higher and fumbles the door open. It shuts with a quiet click and you stare at it intently for five more minutes before rolling off the couch and lumbering your unsteady way towards your room.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] \--

CG: SO  
CG: JOHN  
CG: I HAVE OBTAINED A PIECE OF VALUABL KNOWLEDGE FROM A TRUSTWORRY SourCE.  
EB: hello to you too.  
CG: HI YOURSELF  
CG: JOHN   
CG: JOHN ARE you listen?   
EB: holy shit.  
CG: JOHN   
EB: yeah buddy?    
CG: JOHN.   
CG: JOHN YOU NEED TO BE HONEST WITH ME, ALRIGHT?  
EB: sure…?  
 **CG: IT'S VERTY IMPORTANT.**  
 **CG: DO YOU WANT THE D?**  
EB: …  
CG: DONT DOT DOT DOT AT ME   
EB: you're drunk aren't you?   
EB: karkat.  
CG: no  
EB: …  
CG: YES.  
EB: eheheh.  
EB: skype me.  
CG: NO.  
EB: yes!  
CG: …  
CG: OK   


The arrow swings wildly over your screen as you attempt to double click on the familiar blue icon. Sollux is stupid. You get to see John. That's good. The best. Bestest. Wow. The room is kind of spinning. That fourth beer was a bad idea. The baddest. In a sudden burst of inspiration it occurs to you that carrying your laptop to the bed is a possibility. 

Hell yes. 

Carefully (can't drop it, don't drop it, can't see John if you do) you relocate yourself and your laptop to your bed, curl up with it. Your belly feels weird, not bad, but disconnected, like it is caught in a rift of space time and drifting half a second ahead of you . You hold on to it just to be sure and stare avidly at the screen.

Incoming call!

You accept it.

There he is. John's face is a lot paler than it was six weeks ago, his tan leeching away as he spends more time bowed over books and assignments or talking to you online. Your only regret is that you cannot see how it compares flush against your own. Despite the grainy texture of his sucky webcam his eyes are a devastating blue, black hair feathering haphazardly over his left eye. He's overdue for a haircut, it's all over the place and way too long and looks perfect for burying your face into.

"Hey," he says and smiles slightly.

"Hi," you murmur.

"You alright there?" 

"Yeah," you nod, cushioning your head in the curve of your arm. "How'd you know I was drunk?"

"You failed to caps lock," John grins. "Kinda a big deal."

"Hm," you grunt, still staring at his face. 

You're beginning to feel like shit and not just because of Dave's godawful beer. It's the cause of it, but you're just. Just.

"Hey," John says again and looks worried, resting his elbows on his desk and peering at what you assume is the video feed reflecting your hideous inebriated mug back at him. His whole face fills the window, close enough to reveal the thick fringe of his lashes tangling at the corners of his eyes, the blue burst of his irises and all you remember is him haloed by sunlight as you peered up at him, grass caught in his hair and falling, falling, still falling, falling all over again.

"I miss you."

It comes out wretched and stunted and in all the conversations you've shared neither of you have ever dared to approach the very intimidating yet viable 'talk about feelings' option. You're pretty sure both you and John have wordlessly agreed that feelings are scary and potentially dangerous. It was much easier to avoid it altogether and watch _Con Air_ instead (jesus shit, John, _Con Air_ , what the hell even). Usually you're quite capable of sorting out emotional hurdles with some well-executed scathing remarks -someone else's, that is. Your own? Not so much.

Plus you feel like a total tool as soon as it leaves your mouth. What the fuck is John supposed to do about it?

A static sigh. John's eyes angle towards his keyboard and he shifts back some. "Yeah, same," he murmurs. Lifts a long fingered hand to drag through his nest of black hair. It hitches his shirt into view.

"You're wearing my shirt," you say, groggily lifting your head. He blushes and you almost smile. Adorkable. And then you completely lose it. Just like that. A sound escapes you that's not a sob, you won't let it be, but it's miserable and wet and you're a fucking idiot.

"Karkat, don't," John pleads, looking distraught.

"I really fucking miss you," you hear yourself blurt, pressing your eyes against the fabric of your sleeve. "I can't even fucking remember what you smell like, just that it was so good and I can't even remember. I miss your stupid smile and the way you move your hands and you're right fucking there and it's like you're not even real."

It pours out. You can't seem to stop and some part of you is gazing on in abject terror as you break down in front of your five years younger boyfriend, no trace left of the rational adult you're supposed to be. You're nothing to be proud of when you're sober, but right now you're simply _nothing_ , nothing at all, drunk and whining and making John miserable on top of it.

Even though John is two thousand miles away he talks and talks and talks at you, voice going low and husky, just right. If you close your eyes you can imagine the words dropping against the curve of your ear. The sound of his voice draws you down, in, until you can almost believe him right there with you, lying just behind you, not touching but talking, breathing against your neck and shoulders. Just by holding that image in your mind your fingers slide down the front of your pants, curl around your dick. Your inhale hisses between your teeth; John's exhale shivers out. Cheeks burning you slowly slide your fingers up and down your length, head swimming - _he's watching you_. You stuff your knuckles into your mouth to smother your noises, not wanting to miss a single hushed encouragement John murmurs at you.

"Karkat," he says. "Look at me."

You do, from under your lashes and blushing heavily.

John. John watching you jerk off. His bottom lip is sucked under, bitten, his color high. His hands moves, faster than yours is, you can hear him breathe. John's getting off on watching you jerk off, and fuck, fuck, god, you're gone. You seize up, shake and while it's not the best orgasm ever it's followed by this profound sense of contentment. In a daze you watch him finish a minute later. He gasps your name, startled, and curls up on himself, shoulders hitching vulnerably. All you can do is lie there and witness his face disappearing off screen. Just licks of black hair remain at the edge of the video feed as he rests his face on his desk.

"I ruined your shirt," he mumbles and he sounds so pissed off about it that a breathless laugh escapes you.

You can hear him chuckle in response.

"I can't believe we jacked off on cam," you grumble. 

"Was pretty awesome though." There's a grin in his words.

  


He's right. It was.

*

You wake up as a beam of sunlight slides across your eyes. You lift your hand with a noise of protest and the slight movement causes a burning slosh of liquid to creep up your gullet and whoa, bad idea, no more moving. Lying still until the raging tide of acid in your stomach abides, you carefully pry your eyes open again. Your laptop is caught at an angle between the edge of your bed and the wall, the screen showing a disastrous mop of black hair.

John.

Oh, shit.

Oh holy fucking christ on a pogo stick. You wish you could backspace the last hours of your life at the speed of light, before setting yourself on fire for good measure just to get rid of the memory and _what the fuck were you thinking._

Did… did you jerk off in front of him? A cursory glance down shows that, yes, yes you fucking did, your other hand is still trapped in your boxers and _fuuuuck, gross_ , your cum has dried and has effectively glued your palm to your dick. It comes away with a dry crackling noise and a shower of white flakes and oh my god please let a totally random comet streak into the atmosphere and impact with your skull this is too fucking much to deal with when hung over.

Briefly you consider terminating the call and pretending your laptop's battery died when he asks about it later. In a minute. You will do that in a minute. Right now you just have to bask in the experience of waking up next to him, even if is only through the wonders of technology, inadequate and impersonal as it is. Dawn is streaming through a gap between his curtains, throwing this room into stark relief and. SHIT.

What day is it?!

Friday. It's Friday. Shit, fuck, you're going to be late for work and- shit.

"John!" you croak.

You have his schedule memorized and he's got classes in less than an hour.

"John, wake up!"

A sleepy noise, but no movement.

You inch closer to the laptop, lick you lips and say:

"WAKE UP YOU LITTLE SHIT"

What does it say about John ((and you) (and your fucking relationship)) that he wakes up right away at that. He jolts up, making a 'brluh' sort noise, blinking furiously. You snicker into your sheets, half-reeling still yet amused at his epic bed head (desk head? Fuck, who cares) . 

"What?" he goes, sounding lost and sleepy and shit, fuck, all you want is to tuck him under you chin and soothe him back to sleep. You can't.

"John, hey."

"…Karkat," he says and smiles, fuck _that smile in the morning_ you need to feel it against your lips, fuck, shit, no. 

"Stupid, wake up!" you say empathically. "Good fucking morning, you dumbass. University? Ring a bell? Geology more specifically?"

" _Shit_."

"Yes. Quite."

"Shit shit shit!" he surges up, stumbles. You can't steady him even as your hands rise to do so. 

"You've got time," you assure him. "Just be fast. Bus in fifteen minutes."

He is, shoving books into a battered backpack that has Dave's and Rose's and Jade's handwriting on it. Rushes through his room grabbing more junk and his glasses, jamming gum into his mouth, turns on the spot, before leaning into the camera. "Sorry. I really got to go. Please drink plenty of water. Karkat."

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For last night. You're. You're gorgeous."

You blink at him, cheeks heating.

"You are," he assures you. "I miss you."

"John." It's all you can say, but he's already rushing on.

"Bye!" he says, but he lingers, looks at you with those blue eyes of his and fuck it, you're _blushing_. And then he's out the door and gone, the goddamn Skype window still open.

You close it, throat thick and swollen and not because you're hung over. John saw you beating off drunkenly on webcam and _liked_ it. A shuddery rush of emotion slides down between the valley of your shoulder blades and lands in the pit of your stomach. It's nice and good for all of five seconds before SHIT, not a good combination, your stomach is where the sour remains of your liquid courage dwells and it's defending it's motherfucking territory.

Clapping a palm over your mouth you fall off the bed, crawl, stumble to your knees and dash for the bathroom. You barely make it and the next thing you know you're hanging on for dear life because your body is turning itself inside out and you're going to fucking murder Dave Strider. Kill him dead. Revive him. Kill him so more. Play Ke$ha at his funeral on endless repeat. 

"Best friend?"

You actually choke on your own puke in surprise and miserably cough as tears spring into your eyes. You are not alone. Can't even expel your entrails in peace, shit.

"Oh, wow. Is he, alright?"

WHY?!

"Best friend. Best friend. Best friend. Best frieeend."

"I think he's too busy puking to answer, Gamzee."

When Tavros Nitram becomes the voice of reason you know your life has definitely, irreparably gone to shit.

"Jesus dicks KK."

That's it. Seriously. That's it. As soon as you're done puking you're going to fucking shit an epic firestorm of rage which will ultimately consume the whole goddamn world. It will be sung of in legend. There'll be a movie. A holiday even. They'll build you a statue and pigeons will sit on it and lovingly cover it in their excrement until it's just this magnificent pillar of poo. It's gonna be fucking beautiful, you just know it.

You're barfing in the bathroom, so fucking late for work and there's papery flakes of cum covering your crotch. Gamzee and Tavros are naked in the shower slathered in pink soap bubbles right fucking next to you and all Sollux says is:

"Stay there, I'm going to get the camera."

  


Dave Strider is a dead man.

  


SO. FUCKING. DEAD.

Dead.

The deadest.

Fuck.

*

"Please refrain from vomiting during working hours, Vantas."

If you hear him say that one more time you are fucking going to. Out of pure malice. Besides you weren't even about to, all you were doing was smothering a belch into your fist. You haven't hurled since this morning! Granted you're sort of nauseous, but you've been drinking water and Gamzee made you eat some toast before you dashed out the door. Which helped.

"Leave him be, Equius."

"Please do not undermine my authority in front of my personnel, Nepeta."

You glance at Nepeta from under your bangs and the both of you roll your eyes at each other.

"I saw that," Equius says.

"What are you gonna do?" Nepeta challenges, her chin coming up. "Spank us?"

"Please don't," you implore empathically. Seriously. Your ass will never be the same if he does. You'd have to learn to shit through your left ear or something. How awkward would that be?

"Don't be lewd!" Equius scolds her.

"I thought you enjoyed being _disciplined_ every now and then? Might be fun to have the roles reversed for once, hm?" 

Fuck. Yeah. Okay. You might have enough left to puke one final time. In disbelief you gape over at where Nepeta is doing a custom paint job on a motorcycle (looks like Cat Woman and San from Princess Mononoke had a wild one night stand, resulting in the dame currently sprawling on the vehicle's side).

"That is private!" Equius booms, coloring and starting to perspire. "Not to mention told in _confidence_." He sounds genuinely hurt. 

If you don't move they might forget you're even there.

"… I am sorry," Nepeta murmurs, carefully setting down her airbrush and wandering over to him. She bumps her head into the swell of his bicep, the highest part she can reach.

Ever so carefully he rests a giant hand on her dreadlocks. "Forgiven."

Respectfully you turn away to give them a moment, pulling off your thick work gloves. You fish in the pocket of your overalls for your phone. It buzzed a little while ago but were up to your elbows in grease and unable to check.

**_ >From: John Egbert  
i had to tell everybody i spilled yogurt on my shirt! you couldn't have reminded me to change into something i did not blow my load on? i don't think they believed me either. _**

You snort, read it again and laugh. Type back:

** >>To: John Egbert  
YOGURT. **

**_ >From: John Egbert  
what else was i supposed to say? :/ _**

**_that i got it painting?_**

** >>To: John Egbert  
I DO NOT EVEN WANT TO KNOW HOW THE FUCK YOU PAINT IF IT WINDS UP ON YOUR CROTCH EGBERT. **

**_ >From: John Egbert  
obviously i paint with my dick. it's a new art style. dickasso. très avent garden.  _**

** >>To: John Egbert  
I SUPPOSE YOU MEAN AVANT-GARDE, DIPSHIT **

**_ >From: John Egbert  
you can speak french? _**

** >>To: John Egbert  
ONLY AN IMBECILE WOULD HAVE GOTTEN THAT INCORRECT. THEN AGAIN. YOU ARE AN IMBECILE SO EVERYTHING CHECKS OUT. CONTRATU-FUCKING-LATIONS.  **

**AND YES, I CAN.**

**_ >From: John Egbert  
ooooh, the language of love, so romantic! vouleevou coucher avec moi?  _**

** >>To: John Egbert  
YOU JUST KILLED ROMANCE, JOHN. IT'S DEAD. ROADKILL. I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY.  **

"Are you texting your boyfriend?" 

"GAH!" you nearly fumble your phone as Nepeta giggles gleefully into your ear. It seems she and Equius hugged and made up. The big guy has wandered off, likely to refresh himself and now you're cornered by a tiny girl with a penchant for matchmaking. 

"I won't tell the big bad boss if you show me a picture of him!" She wheedles, rising up on her tiptoes to better stare you down. She's short, dark and curvy. Pretty rather than beautiful, but she's got these amazing hazel green eyes you'd never expect. She's using them now to melt your resolve.

It's working. "I know what you and Roxy get up to in your spare time. I'm not handing you more boys love fodder to get your grubby paws all over!" you attempt in a last ditch effort.

Nepeta firmly grabs your wrist and begins tugging it down to her height. Defeated, you let her. "I prrromise it'll stay PG rated."

"What does that even fucking mean?" you grumble (you know exactly what it fucking means, you devour romance stories by the hundreds) and flick through the menu to call up one of the latest photos you bullied John into sending you. It's a snapshot of him making an excessively theatric face of disgust over a piece of pie. He's wearing a striped bobble beanie and generally looks like a massive tool.

You love that picture.

"Ooooh, he's adorable!" Nepeta coos, snatching the phone out of your hands greedily and nearly pressing her nose up against the screen.

"Yeah, adorkable, now give it back!" 

The two of you squabble halfheartedly over the phone and don't notice Equius return until he's standing right behind you and says: "Beautiful eyes."

You freeze with the Nepeta's hand jammed into your cheek, the phone held high above her head. At perfect Equius height. He shrugs.

"I like blue."

*

A week passes.

John gets a job.

You're happy for him all of exactly three days. At which point you realize that John having a job means he'll be online much, _much_ less. And that when he finally _is_ (after you've spent three hours glowering resentfully at his dead chumhandle slouched behind your laptop) he'll be frantic to catch up on lessons and assignments and unable to be fully invested in the conversation.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] \--

CG: DAVE.  
TG: karkat  
CG: JOHN GOT A JOB.  
TG: yes thats a thing hes doing  
CG: WHY?  
TG: fuck i suppose to make money thats usually what you gotta do if you want hard cold cash  
CG: NO FUCKING WAY. WOW. AND HERE I WENT WORKING FOR SHITS AND GIGGLES  
CG: IS THERE A REASON HE NEEDS A LOT OF MONEY FAST, YOU OBLIQUE ASSWAFFLE?  
TG: hes your boyfriend   
TG: so go and ask him why are you asking me even he doesnt bite  
TG: oh wait he does  
TG: hows your neck by the way  
CG: SHUT UP.  
CG: HE'S YOUR BEST FRIEND.  
TG: maybe he just wants something very badly and it costs a lot of money  
TG: thats usually how shit works in society everythings got a price  
TG: you want it you buy it  
CG: SO HELPFUL  
TG: i try  


\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] \--

When questioned John's peculiarly evasive about it. Something about saving up just in case and maybe a video game, hahah, and then hop-trip-stumble into a new topic. You're more curious than worried, if maybe vaguely irritated he doesn't just _tell_ you. Yet again it strikes you that the usual flood of apprehension remains curiously absent. That for all how _painful_ it is to maintain a relationship with someone when there's a significant distance preventing a quintessential dynamic, it's more natural, healthier than all your previous relationships.

Fucked up even thought that is, not to mention how much it fucking hurts to miss John, it's worth if only for how easily your interactions with him come. Yes, despite him irritating the hell out of you and for all the both of you squabble and poke at each other.

At least with John you don't feel like you have to try and keep a lid on that side.

Side effects of doing the whole relationship backwards with him is that, as you go on talking to him you realize that, _yes_ , yes you do like him. He's a fucking pest, his sense of humor is questionable (as well as his taste in movies, holy shit) and he can be downright mulish when he wants to be (and not in a 'd'aaw my boyfriend is being all cute and stubborn'; nope it's the sort where you feel he'd benefit from having his stupid head dunked down a toilet and flushing it a few times). As you realize that wow, yes, you like him and fall even harder, deeper, hopelessly and completely, your body goes: HEY YOU DISGUSTING WASTE OF RESOURCES REMEMBER THAT TIME YOU FUCKED HIM?

You do.

It's like you leapt a decade back in time, landing smack dab in horny teenage-dom. Basically all you do when not working, sleeping, eating or talking to John is beating off like a dog in heat. Fuck, even in your dreams you're not safe.

Sollux is keeping a tally of how many times you've had to wash your sheets and pajamas. Has it posted on the fridge titled: 

  
tiime2 KK ha2 creamed hii2 2heet2 and/or hii2 pant2

|||

No matter how many times you've torn it off and crammed it into his ugly maw, it's always back next time you want to get a snack or a drink. In retaliation you're going to sell some of his baby pictures to Eridan. He may never forgive you but it'll be so fucking worth it. Besides, if Sollux really goes off the deep end in a fit of fury, you have pictures of the time Eridan attempted to dye his hair and it turned out the approximate color of Sollux's text color to cheer him right back up. You'd watched Kanaya clucking over Eridan's whimpering form, head dunked under the tap, snickering your ass off as you snapped the occasional picture with your phone.

Fuzzy happy thoughts of emotional blackmail aside, perhaps your desperation for John is why the contents of the package sitting in the middle of the kitchen table hit you as hard as they do.

"Got a package," Sollux tells you as soon as you step through the front door.

"Huh," you go, distracted as you let first one boot, then the other thump loudly on the floor. You spare it a glance as you slip out of your hoodie on your way to the fridge. Snatch the note away with a certain amount of violence, sending the magnet clattering onto the floor. Dunk the wad of paper into the bowl of cereal Sollux is eating, splattering milk onto his front.

"The hell KK?!"

"You're going to spoil your appetite if you finish that," you tell him with a smirk. "I'm pretty sure Gamzee said he was going to make stir fry."

"You're an asshole, KK."

"Love you too, you outrageously loathsome sack of flesh."

"Urgh," he says, standing up to dump his bowl into the sink.

You look the package over curiously. It's not all that big, doesn't weigh heavy when you lift it to expose the sides to you look for a sender and -

oh.

Oh god.

It's from John.

You must make a noise, because Sollux appears at your side, bumping elbows with you. "It's from John," you manage, throat locked up.

"Is it now?" Sollux says mildly and fucking damn him, _he knew_. He knew and didn't even send you a goddamn text to let you know, fuck him, the total douche, you're sending Eridan those baby pictures stat.

As if able to detect your vengeful train of thought he hands you a pair of scissors. Your hands shake a little and seriously, what's _wrong_ with you? Getting so flustered over mail from your boyfriend! But. It's something _tangible_. Something he held, touched, something he's giving you. You don't have anything from John, nothing at all but for the pictures on your phone, endless pages of logs and memories.

It parts under the sharp edge and you fold it open, heart hammering. Blink. Blink again in confusion. Lift it out in your hand, blink some more and then you're laughing, honest to god laughing full from your chest, raggedly loud and honest Sollux gapes at you in outright shock. You don't think he ever heard you laugh like this, but damn John Egbert anyway for doing this to you.

 _Killer Crabs by Guy N. Smith_ promises to be one of the reads that's so fucking horrible it's good.

" _From the depths of the sea they come to watch us… stalk us… devour us!_ " you and Sollux recite the print on the front in unison, dropping your voices low and foreboding. Sollux shakes his head, takes the book from your hands to read the blurb on the back as you peer back inside. There's something else. It's soft under your fingers as you lift it out.

A t-shirt. 

Worn and rumpled and blue, as blue as John's eyes. It hurts to swallow as you let it unfold, to reveal a print in lighter blue on the front. It's a simple graphic, two swooping lines like a current of air. The kitchen is very quiet as you stand there staring at your boyfriend's shirt. Silently Sollux hands you a note that dropped to the floor as you emptied the box.

It's plain notebook paper, with a mangled fringe from where it was ripped off the block.

__

_Hi Karkat!_

__

_I saw the book and it made me think of you, hahah!_

-the little shit-

__

_Remember how you gave me your shirt? And on Skype you told me couldn't remember what I smelled like. So I wore and slept a few times in this one, it should refresh your memory ;)_

__

_Hopefully around the time this arrives I'll have good news for you (maybe? I hope you'll like it)! Stay tuned._

__

_John_

His handwriting is almost childish, but legible enough and it's terribly pathetic how your heart melts at the weird-ass curly things he makes of his a's. He's drawn a crab (poorly) in the upper right corner.

For once Sollux does not have any snarky barbs to offer, just sets down the book down on the table as unobtrusively as possible as he retreats to his room to give you some privacy. The fabric is so soft from being worn it catches on the calluses you have on your fingers and there's a small hole near the neckline where the stitching has fallen apart. It seems stretched in the shoulders. Every flaw shows how much John loved that shirt, wore it over and over even as he outgrew it, unable to give it up. It's the sort of item that has a treasure vault of memories attached to it and you have no doubt that if you ever got to see a photo album of his the shirt would turn up like clockwork every few pages throughout his teenage years.

Bunching it between your hands you lick your lips, hesitating for a reason you cannot name, before lifting it to your face. S l o w l y.

 _Fuck_.

Oh, John.

You breathe in, uneven and gasping at first as your press your face into the fabric. Again, steadier. It's fucking _beautiful_.  It's good, so good, you knew it was but it shocks you just _how_ good. And it's real, real enough that you can even almost recall the way he tasted, the wet warmth of his mouth, the saltiness of his skin, the flutter of his heart catching against your tongue, under your palms, against your own chest.

The shades are drawn in your room, admitting only slivers of honeyed afternoon light, dust motes highlighted in lazy swirling suspension. It has warmed the sheets on your bed as you settle down on it, laying down on your back with John's shirt clutched so tightly in your left hand your bones ache.

A thousand scents cling to it and they'd tell a story of how he spent his days, where he was, what sort of weather it was, the people he talked to, what he ate, how he slept defenseless and relaxed in his bed, breathing out slowly. Sweat and autumn air and soap, there's something sweet and something musky and it's John, all John and you curl around it, cocoon yourself in it. Sigh into it as you press a palm against the front of your jeans, never take it from your face as you inch them down your hips so you can work more easily at your cock.

You take your time, longer than you usually indulge yourself. _Pleasuring_ yourself for once, your hand wandering your chest, the front of your throat, trailing over your sides as you think about John doing this for you. You sprawl, legs parting as you stroke the insides of your thighs and back to where you're hard and wanting, pooling precum into the trail of hair running down from your navel to slick it around the head, gasp and stifle a groan.

Dragging your hand from tip to base a few times, you shudder, hollow your back. Brace yourself better to maintain the slight but continued cant of your hips into your own fingers, fucking yourself as best as you can.

You're probably noisy, it's involuntary, but most of it is muffled by the cloth against your face. Your breath hitches, your lashes flutter and you catch blue. Blue, blue, blue, it says John to you, despite knowing he likes green best, and you wonder if he did what you're doing now, hand moving on his gorgeous cock, spread out on his bed, wearing only the shirt, the fabric pulling taut over his chest and his belly bare and _AH!_ , you're gone.

Your orgasm his strong, but steady. A sustained spell of pure sensation rather than a single violent crest. Your blood roars through your ears.

Afterwards you lay shivering as your body settles in the aftermath, sweat cooling on your skin. Ever so carefully you set John's t-shirt aside, on the window ledge. You don't want your own scent overpowering it.

You lie flat on your back staring at ceiling and miss your boyfriend.

*

Obviously John meant to cheer you up with the package and he _did_.

He did.

But.

Kanaya once told you you experience your emotions in extremes, your fury so complete it never quite ends, the way you fucking care too much about your friends so you can never seem to rest, always worrying, the ability to loathe yourself with unnecessary zeal and fuck, even when you're apathetic about something it's this encompassing void that's spectacular all on its own. 

And when you love, you love completely.

You've never been in a relationship that didn't add another damn crack to your heart when it ended, you've never kissed anybody without your whole soul behind it. The worst of it is that John didn't even have to kiss you to bring you to your knees -though the fact that he _did_ , surely didn't fucking help.

That night you creep towards Gamzee's room for the first time in months. Slide under the sheets with him, burrow into his front when he wakes enough to wrap his long arms around you. You fist both hands into his shirt and exhale, hard.

Large hands cuddle you close, pet your curls. Gamzee is so much taller than you, larger overall despite having hipbones like knives and a ladder of ribs showing at each side of his torso. When he cups the back of your head he literally covers it entirely, long fingers spreading far enough to tickle the rim of your left ear and the nape of your neck all at once.

Gamzee snuffles, shifts a hand towards your front. Raps a knuckle right over the spot where your heart pulses as though knocking on a door.

"Build himself a right motherfucking nest in there, ain't he?" he murmurs.

You don't say anything, having a hard time enough already without talking about it.

"Ain't no thing one of them happy sticky things can fix, the ones we got with them smiley faces. I know, my brother," Gamzee shifts his hand back towards your side and hitches you closer. "It's a good hurt, best friend. I motherfucking promise."

You swallow. "I know," you say, twining the silver chain around his neck through your fingers until you find the small cross dangling at the end, the one he got from his father. You've never seen him without it. You trace the simple shape with the pad of your thumb. "Gamz?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever been in love?"

The silence that follows is thick, almost charged.

Eventually. "Yeah."

Surprised, you blink. It's not that Gamzee doesn't care. He does, he cares quite a lot when he puts his mind to it. He's capable of loving someone, but you don't think you've ever seen him _in_ love. You try to find his face in the darkness of his room, frowning.

"With who?" you ask.

"… get your wicked z's on, Karbro, it's late." 

"I- Okay."

"Sweetest of dreams, my brother."

"Goodnight, Gamzee."

Hushed, relaxed exhales.

"Don't fucking kick me out of bed this time, you hear me, you spastic lump?"

"Hahah, I'll try, my brother. Now shoosh the motherfuck up."

"Alright."

" _Shoosh!_ "

"Oka- er. Never mind."

"Hahah."

*

John's not online for the next four days. When you text him he'll respond quite promptly and cheerfully enough, but he doesn't actively seek you out to harass the hell out of you. You drift around aimlessly in the apartment after work, cleaning and cluttering about until Sollux eventually gets fed up with your moping and plays some Halo with you in the evenings. You're being pathetic and you know it. It pisses you off all the more, until your pining segues into this perpetual state of irritation at yourself, your feelings, the world at large and everything in it. Including John. Which is not fair of you at all, but you never claimed to be a beacon of everything just and delightful here.

And then he calls you while you're at work the next day.

You legitimately  freak out.

One of your iron rules is not to actually phone you at work unless it's important. Important as in 'the zombie apocalypse has begun' or 'I accidentally amputated my left leg and it's bleeding kinda hard'. The work you perform for Equius is _far_ from what you once intended to make a career out of and you only got this damn job thanks to Nepeta but that doesn't mean you do not intend to perform to the best of your ability. A text is fine here and there and they'll have to wait until you have time to respond but an actual phone call is for, well. Emergencies.

John is fully aware of this and knows you're working right now.

So when he quite cheerfully goes "Guess what?" when you pick up. Well. 

You grit your teeth. "John, I'm working."

"I know, I know. Sorry about that. But this is kinda important and-"

"Are you dying?"

"No, but-"

"Is something on fire?"

"No, gosh, just listen-"

"Are _you_ on fire?"

"No, but-"

"Then it's not fucking important you idiot," you tell him.

Equius frowns disapprovingly at you. You wince and try to convey an apology by making a face at him. You probably look vaguely lunatic. Fuck.

"I just want to ask if you're free next weekend," John takes the opportunity to blurt while you're preoccupied with not, you know, getting fucking fired.

"I really don't have fucking time for this," you snarl. "I don't understand what is too damn complicated for you to grasp about 'don't call me at work unless it is important', but for some reason you're too much of a dumb shit to get this, so I'll make it simple. Don't call me at work, John. Ever." 

Silence.

"Alright," John says, surprisingly complacent. Your shoulder relax some. "I suppose I don't have to bother buying these plane tickets then. Bye."

He hangs up. 

Which leaves you staring at your phone in bewilderment. Plane tickets? Why is he bothering you at work about plane tickets? Ugh. You'll find out later. Dropping your phone back into a pocket of your overalls you try to get your bearings of what you were doing before John disturbed you. Find Equius staring at you.

"I'm sorry about that," you apologize. "I've told them not to call unless it's important."

"Quite alright," Equius says, glancing at his screen briefly. He types a line or two of code as you dig around for a wrench before he speaks up. "Vantas?"

"Yes?"

"Was that your boyfriend?"

"Yeah. I'm really sorry, I told him-"

Equius cuts over you, which is a shock in and on itself as he's unfailingly polite. "You could stand to treat him with a little more respect," he points out.

Just like that you go from pissed off to absolutely furious. You almost, _almost_ yell at him, livid that he thinks he's got the right to interfere in your relationship and what does he even fucking know anyway?! It's not his business if you want to act like a complete and utter raging bag of dicks and treat your boyfriend like sh- _oh_.

Oh shit.

You stand there, eyes clenched shut to block out the dawning horror and mouth falling slack as it fully sinks in what you just did.

"Take a break, Vantas," Equius tells you. His deep baritone is surprisingly kind. You've only ever heard it like this when he talks to Nepeta.

"I've just taken…" you flounder.

"Take another one," he insists. "You work quite enough already."

You're so damn grateful you don't even know how to begin to thank him, so you just nod mutely and rush out back. Heavy heat beats down, but you're shivering, cold to the very core of your being. It's hard to maneuver through the menus of your phone with your hands are shaking as violently as they are, but eventually you manage to call up the correct contact. Wait as the dial tone goes over, once, twice, four times, ten times… 

He's not picking up.

You crouch down, one arm wrapped around your middle, the other holding your phone. Alright. Deep breaths. You fucked up. This has happened before. You've been dumped for acting like this before. Rightfully so. But. If you fucked up with John. If. If you just lost John. _John_. Fuck. You harshly press your index and thumb against your closed eyelids. You are panicking.

You can't loose him. You can't. John has to know how you feel about him, right? He has to know that when you call him 'idiot' and 'shithead' you don't mean it, right? He has to know you're just a complete and utter asshole, right? He has to know. He has to know that you. That you. Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

You're halfway through a message to Dave when you stop, consider and grudgingly backspace. It's not fair to draw him into this. Not to mention he was clear from the very beginning that being drawn into a conflict between you and John is the last thing he wants. That it was the only objection he ever even raised against you jumping his best bro's bones during a music festival and impulsively agreeing to give this relationship thing a try with him.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering gardenGnostic [GG] \--

CG: JADE. DO YOU HAVE A MOMENT?  
GG: hi :)  
GG: sure whats up  
CG: I FUCKED UP WITH JOHN.  
GG: EEEEEW!!!!!!!!  
GG: thats my little brother youre talking about mister!!!  
GG: i really didnt want to know DX  
CG: WHAT  
GG: what  
GG: oh  
GG: ooooooh  
GG: oops!  
GG: sorry im in class typing all sneaky under my desk  
CG: SHIT. I WILL KEEP IT BRIEF  
GG: its alright dumbass  
GG: what happened???  
CG: HE PHONED ME AT WORK TO ASK SOMETHING AND I PROMPTLY UNDERWENT A MAGICAL TRANSFORMATION INTO A HYSTERICAL FISHWIFE WITH A BLOWFISH CRAMMED UP HER PUTRID, WART INFESTED POSTERIOR AND PROCEEDED TO WORDVOMIT THE SORT OF ASININE BULLSHIT THAT WOULD MAKE A PILE OF FARTING HYENAS CRY FOR THEIR MOMMY.    
GG: omfg karkat english please!  
CG: I YELLED AT HIM  
CG: AND CALLED HIM A DUMB SHIT  
CG: FOR DISTURBING ME AT WORK.  
GG: …  
CG: YEAH  
GG: !  
CG: I KNOW  
GG: !!!!  
GG: !!!!!!!!  
GG: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
CG: YOU ARE ABSOLUTELY RIGHT.  
GG: what the hell assfuck??!!  
GG: whyd you do that?  
CG: I GUESS  
CG: BECAUSE I MISS HIM?  
 **GG: that literally makes no sense at all!**  
GG: its like the dumbest thing ever karkat, it really is!!  
CG: I KNOW. I'M JUST  
CG: FRUSTRATED I GUESS? I HAVEN'T PHYSICALLY INTERACTED WITH HIM SINCE AUGUST  
 **GG: yeah well newsflash fucknuts you knew this was going to be a thing before you agreed to be his boyfriend**  
 **GG: you knew it and you said yes anyway**  
GG: if youre too much of a pussy to deal with it then break up with him so he can move on  
GG: but don't passively aggressively punish him for something thats as much your fault as it is his!!!  
CG: I KNOW ALRIGHT! I KNOW I FUCKING DESERVE YOUR WHITE HOT HELPING OF SCORN. BUT I REALLY NEED TO KNOW WHAT I CAN DO TO FIX THIS RIGHT NOW.  
GG: grovel   
GG: beg  
GG: prostate yourself at his feet  
GG: why are you even talking to me? :⎪  
CG: POINT TAKEN.  


\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering gardenGnostic [GG] \--

Problem being that John refuses to pick up. In fact, his phone goes straight to voicemail every single time you try. Eventually you have to give up for the time being, your second break is over. You feel physically worse than you did the day after you got drunk with Dave, like someone scraped out your intestines with a spoon and replaced them with a gelatinous blob that has mystery chunky bits caught in it, jarring your bones as they shift around. Equius makes little demand of you for the remainder of the day and when you get into your car you can hardly recall what - or if- you actually accomplished anything worthwhile. You fully intend to go home, take a calming shower and tuck yourself safely into the welcome privacy of your room. 

Instead you pull up at an old abandoned playground and get out of your truck, unable to bear the leaden weight of not knowing burning a hole through your gut any longer. Your heavy boots kick up puffs of dry sand as you head for the swing set. It creaks ominously and sprinkles you with rust as you sit down, but holds. After compulsively wiping your clammy palms on the denim of your jeans you fish for your phone once again.

Please.

The dial tone beeps, once, twice. Five times.

" _Please_ ," you hiss through your teeth.

Seven.

Eight.

A static crack and then John's voice: "Done with work?" There's so much vicious sweetness packed into those three words you recoil a little. Your lips part. Your spine snaps straight. You have no idea what to say. You lick your lips. "Hello?" he goes, confusion seeping into his tone.

"John," you manage at last, gritty regret caught in your vocal cords. You try to clear it. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't mean-" A disparaging scoff cuts you off. Yeah, you suppose you deserve that. Seeing as this is exactly what you said when you turned him down. "I've no excuse," you admit quietly.

 _I miss you so fucking bad it drives me insane so I act like a flea infested piece of trash because I'm a failure_ , doesn't really cut it. And you're so _confused_. You're so fucking lost because in previous relationships you tried so hard to be careful and nice, and yeah, you slipped up sometimes. But. You just lashed out at John. You're so used to interacting with him in ways that put him apart from solely marking him your romantic interest. He's your friend, too, someone you'd trust to have your back, someone around whom you don't need to pretend and not have to worry he'll give you shit for it. He knows you're an asshole. But he still deserves better from you. Even if he was just a friend he'd deserve better from you. Huh. Oh wow. Wow you _really_ don't deserve him, do you? Shit.

"Hey," John says, softly. "Apology accepted."

God, this guy. You don't deserve him, not at all. He's giving you a second -third even!- chance. "John, I-"

"Just count to ten or something before flipping your shit next time, asshole," he adds flippantly. 

You huff out a mangled chuckle, grinding the heel of your palm against your right eye. "Alright," you tell him, swallowing audibly. Then: "Why did you call me?"

" _Now_ he's interested," John jeers, obviously still stung and quite gleeful to rub some more salt into the wounds.

You're a defensive shit even when you don't have the right to be, because you actually have to take a deep breath to calm yourself, before you can even think about responding in a calm tone. "Yeah, I am. Tell me?"

"Well," he draws it out obnoxiously. You're absolutely sure he got that from Spiderbitch. "There was this offer on last minute plane tickets, but I had to pass up on that because _someone_ was being cranky." Again with the plane tickets. You tuck a curl of hair behind your ear, frowning. It's obvious he's waiting for a reaction of sorts but you've not quite caught on, stuck on 'holy fuckshit he's still mine he didn't dump me hallelujah', because you yelled at him and he's _still there_. You inhale deeply, fully planning to expel it with a cleverly formulated response, but it is not happening. John _tsks_. "Jeez, Karkat, for someone so smart you're really fucking dumb sometimes, you know?"

"I really don't-"

And then.

Then you get it.

"Oh. Oh fuck. Shit shit _shit shit shit_ -"

There are no words to describe the utter devastation you're experiencing right then. The shock and turmoil and bitter, choking regret. You'd gotten so caught up in not being able to see him you were unable to get a fucking clue that it was a possibility, one that was happening. Dave actually hinted at it. Obscurely, sure, but he did. Not to mention John started working right after you bleated pathetically about missing him, as well as the reference to good news on the note. How did you not fucking see John was trying to make it happen? He's technically still a teenager and he's gotten a job so he could come to see you because you went to pieces during a Skype call.  And _you_ , the supposed adult. The adult who petulantly soils his panties because someone dares call him at work and yells at his boyfriend when he's not getting drunk and blubbering like a spoiled infant.

You don't deserve him. You really fucking don't.

"Sucks huh?" John says, still doing that intentionally cruel cheerful voice, grinding your nose into the mess you made.

Instead you cover your eyes with your freehand because you can't fucking deal with this, with the fact that you're such a fucking failure you prevented yourself from getting what you wanted most. Maybe your stifled gasps succeed in bleeding down the line or maybe John just knows you well enough to know what sinkhole your mind is caught in, because he exhales, sharp. It sounds like surrender.

"You better be home next weekend," he murmurs.

After a moment you manage to steady your voice. "How do you mean?"

"Because I bought the tickets anyway," John tells you. In that moment he sounds young, young and worried and insecure and hopeful. Always hopeful, your John.

It aches to swallow around he rock of tentative elation stuck in your throat. "You did?"

"Yeah," John says and you can tell he's smiling timidly. The kind that'll bloom into that full-fledged buck-toothed joy if you allow it to and you're so fucking sorry you can't see it.

You breathe out, shuddering. "Fuck."

"Is. Is that okay? I know you didn't say yes. But there were very few tickets left and I had to, I couldn't afford- if. If you don't have time I'll just stay at Dave's. He said it was okay, so. So yeah."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Wow," your laugh is more air than sound, disjoined. "Wow. Really?"

"Yes," John's laughing, too. "Next week, Karkat. Next _week_."

Next week. You get to see him next week. Next week you'll get to see that perfectly imperfect toothy smile of his. See him and touch him and- oh wow. John will be here next week. He'll be here with you. John made this happen. "Fuck you," you tell him, smiling.

"Jerk," he answers, but it sounds soft and sweet.

The two of you are so damn weird together, you don't make sense at all and shit, you love this person so much. You've known you did for a while now, but it's the first time you're actually alright with it.

You love John.

*

The following week is both the shortest and the longest in your life. First and foremost every single fibre of your body is going JOHN. John here, with you, physically, actually with you. In. less. than. a week. Of course, you have to clean the apartment. Twice. You have to think of suitably awesome, cool and yet still couply-things to do with him. As soon as it gets around that John is coming to Texas everybody is rearing their head and _demanding_. Dave quite callously insists that he needs to have John to himself for a day. Jade perks up that she needs some quality time with her little brother without giving you even the chance to protest. Rose requests you to bring him along to one of your Sunday visitations. Kanaya informs you in no uncertain terms that this is an obligation, not a request.

Hour by precious hour he's taken away from you.

He'll fly in late on Thursday evening, after his classes, and stay up until Monday evening.

Equius can slot your Monday free, but not Friday. Reluctantly you allow Dave the latter to hoard John. Jade will have to fucking share with him because you are _not_ giving up another day. You only have Saturday completely. One complete day. 

John agrees, thank fuck.

So you clean and drive yourself (as well as Sollux and Gamzee) out of your mind planning and plotting and it has to be _perfect_. 

You're so happy.

And so fucking scared.

Scared that when you see him the spark will be gone. That you won't have the easy, natural way of interacting with him, that your kissing and sex will feel mechanical and forced, because it's expected, because that is what you did in a spur of feelings and hormones two months ago. Everything that happened at that festival was spontaneous, emotive rather than rational.

What if it's gone?


	2. Chapter 2

It's really odd to stand in the airport terminal waiting. People mill around you, dragging luggage and looking harried and preoccupied. You witness a mother in military uniform scooping up her two children, her husband watching on with tears openly tracking down his cheeks. There's two ancient old men embracing, they might be brothers, respected colleagues, friends, lovers, you don't know. More often than not you cannot discern the relation between the people falling into one another's arms. It's late, stars and shadows outside, leaving you mostly stationary in a painfully silent airport. Waiting.

The air-condition prickles your skin into goosebumps as you worry the pad of you thumb across the screen of your phone.

He should be here any moment.

Fuck, your knees are shaky. John, _your_ John, should be here any moment. Your heart has been racing in your chest ever since yesterday evening when you went to bed and realized that _tomorrow_! Which is right fucking now. It's late and your body is thrumming with pure adrenaline and the luggage carousel is creaking, one unclaimed bag going and round and round again. In the palm of your hand, your phone buzzes.

**_ >From: John Egbert  
okay. you ready? _**

You stare at that. What the actual fuck? What's that supposed to even mean? You cast about, furtively, but besides you and a few other vigilant people hovering it's still utterly abandoned. Ten minutes and then twenty as you shift your weight, sweating. You showered before heading out, made sure to dress nicely without seeming dressed up and now you're stinking yourself up out of sheer nerves what the hell. And then. Then there's a sudden flood of people streaming into the terminal.

You start shaking and can't stop.

** >>To: John Egbert  
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU? **

Watching your phone flicker at you in confirmation that the message was delivered, you look up again.

You see him before he sees you. You stop breathing, stop moving, stop doing anything but try to come to terms that John is right there. Instantly it is obvious the temperature was a lot cooler where he lives. He's dressed in faded jeans and blue and green plaid vest over a gray t-shirt. He's wearing a knit beanie and there's a scarf trailing out of the backpack slung onto his back. Even from this distance his eyes stand out as he looks around, trying to find you. You watch him pull the knit cap off, stuff it into a pocket of his baggy pants and dig a hand into his hair as he casts about frantically. 

And then. Then he turns, eyes skimming the crowd, pass over you, skip back instantly. Settle on you.

He smiles.

It's like staring into the sun.

Every single inhale and exhale hitches as you watch him approach, stuffing your phone into your pocket automatically. He's still… he's still… you look at him and it's John… John who's right in front of you, his backpack dropping to the floor with a loud thud before he launches himself at you.

There's enough force in it the air is knocked out of you, a hard physical impact as he slams into you, jarring bones and bruising flesh. Just like that you're holding him. The skin of his neck is bare and lovely and you press your face against it. Breathe in as you wind fingers into the back of his shirt. He smells so fucking amazing, even after hours on a plane marinating is stale air-conditioning. John folds you into him, arms winding around your shoulders. You forgot how he physically felt, his height and his chest, the roll of muscle in his arms as he wraps them around you. Both of you stand there and breathe together. Just like that, holding on. It's surreal. 

John laughs silently into the soft hairs curling around your ear. "Missed me?"

"Fuck you, John Egbert," you swear into his skin. "Fuck you. And yes."

Both of you edge apart far enough to smile at each other. Well. John is. "Hey, loser, I thought you'd be happy to see me!" he exclaims, doing this bright, toothy smile with a mischievous twist at the corners. It's lovely to look at. He bonks your foreheads together, shifts up to nuzzle the furrow between your brows with the tip of his nose. 

"This is my happy face, dickrag," you growl at him. Or you try, but halfway through it wavers and falls into breathy anticipation as you catch the look John's giving you, eyes lidded. 

He leans in, hovers over your lips for an agonizing moment, breathing on them and you think he's going to make you tiptoe for it. But then he closes the distance and kisses you. Close-mouthed and soft and chaste, which you reciprocate with short, heavy pecks of your own. It's less than you want and more than you -both of you- can handle. After John ducks his face into the collar of your shirt and you carefully stroke his back until he stops shivering like someone's gently sliding a knife between his ribs.

*

"Did you like the book?"

You level a narrow look at him as you open the door and slip out of the truck, boots hitting heavy on the asphalt. "It was completely atrocious."

John beams as though your response was everything he ever hoped for and you feel your mouth twitch in response despite yourself. You haul his duffel bag out of the trunk, wave his grabbing hands away and shoulder it. John grabs your freehand in retaliation, making you belly flip. As the elevator hauls you both up he twines your fingers together and traces your knuckles with his thumb. By the time you're at the door your heart is slamming erratically against your ribs because you're mere minutes -maybe even seconds- away from kissing him, really kissing him, kissing _John_ -John!- and your key slides around the lock drunkenly a few times before you get it right. You open the door for him and let him pass by, shut it behind you.

You swallow on nothing, try to calm yourself but your breath is going shaky as you lower his duffel bag. John shrugs out of his backpack as he looks around with shameless curiosity and you can't look away, you're reeling and lightheaded and you can't wait anymore. 

"John," you say.

Before he's fully turned around you have the collar of his shirt fisted between your fingers and are pulling him towards you. Your lips graze his. A harsh exhale guts out of John and you're only breathing together for a moment, watching one another through shuttered lashes, mouths barely whispering together. A hand of yours comes up to splay along the side of his throat so you can catch every hitch and tremble. His lashes flutter shut as his palms settle on your hips, drawing you closer and aligning your mouths and 

_fuck_

it's. It hurts. It hurts on this bone deep level you're not sure you completely understand and it's fucking perfect and you're going to chain the little bastard to your bed and never letting him leave ever he's just going to have to fucking deal with it. 

Slow, so deliberate, both of you trying to be careful but it's falling apart with soft noises as you pull away, lips disconnecting and then going back for more and you might be glowing, every single nerve sending a wash of heat through you where his hands touch you along your waist and up to your ribs, down again. When he licks along your bottom lip you burn, burn with white noise filling your head and shit, oh fuck, you know what he's doing when he slots your bottom lip between his, not sucking at it, just cradling it with his mouth and creating a path for the tip of his tongue to follow. He makes a noise when he finds it.

The scar.

You have one. Visible only by a slight hiccup where the flesh of your lip becomes the skin of your chin. It's easier to feel, a notch almost if you press down on it, like it still hasn't managed to knit everything together inside. John rests the tip of his tongue against it, traces it, pulls back. Cold air hits where his warm mouth was and you shiver, but he's already back warm and needy and starved. Blunt nails dig into your skin when you ease his mouth open, nipping at him until you can taste him, the wet heat of his mouth and the soft whine he makes low in his chest. You kiss him and hold him until you have to stop for a moment, panting into each other's mouths.

"Fuck. _Fuck_ ," you hiss, dragging your lips along his jaw. "You taste better than I remembered."

Humming in response, John is pushing his hands up under your shirt, gliding along your waist just touching your skin. His fingertips are rougher than you recall and it sends shivers down your spine. You pant quietly against the corner of his mouth, drunk on sensory overload. 

"I'm really happy to be here," John murmurs, fingers skating along your spine idly. "Even though it's really warm here, geez."

"Fucktard, you're in Texas. What did you expect?" 

"I know, dude, just let go of me for a second so I can take off my shirt."

Less clothes on John. Yes. Good. Letting go, not so much good. You're momentarily conflicted until there's movement further in the apartment. 

"You two done sucking face?" Sollux calls.

"Go fuck a boil-riddled anus, Captor," you snarl back as comes into view. 

"Ew," John sniggers, prying himself out of your hold to get the plaid vest off. "Hi Sollux."

"JN," he nods. You make a face at him because, what the shit, JN? Really? But Sollux's attention is firmly on John, blinking in bemusement. "Holy fuck, you planning on auditioning for Thor?" he whistles. 

While you really do not like Sollux ogling John at all, you can see where he's coming from. In just two months he's added extra bulk to his upper torso, just enough to make individual muscle groups defined even in repose. You're gaping. John is laughing at your reaction, pleased. He reaches out two fingers to close your jaw for you and you swipe angrily at his hand. He laughs some more. Douchebag. 

"Like what you see?" he waggles his brows at you, pushing his face into yours.

You smother it with your palm. "You look like baby faced reject for a low-budget construction worker porno."

John just keeps wagging his brows, because no amount of spitting and biting will hide the treacherous flush on your face. Yes, dammit, you like it. _A lot_.  It doesn't help that John obviously knows this. "Give me a hardhat and I'll whistle at you," he suggests, darting past your hand and kissing your open and protesting mouth. "Hey, baby, woo woo!" 

"Whoa, keep the roleplaying where it belongs: far fucking away from me," Sollux tells you, but he's smirking as he wanders into the kitchen for a drink. "Seeing as KK was too fucking preoccupied getting into your pants to be a gracious host; do you want a drink?" he asks John.

He nods. "Yes please," he gives you one last grin and trails after Sollux into the kitchen.

Because you can't help yourself you follow him, sticking close. "Seriously, are you working out?" you ask, unsure what to think if he actually does.

John blinks. "It's because of work, Karkat. Like I'd even have time to hit a gym. Bluh."

"I thought you gave piano lessons," you point out, confused.

"Oh, well," John takes a glass of water from Sollux with a grateful nod and drinks deeply before answering, "I, ah, didn't get enough money from that alone. So I took up a second one at a warehouse."

"Ah," you swallow, feeling guilty. "John, you should have fucking said something. I'd have helped out." Your wallet would have squealed in terror, but you'd have managed. How didn't you stop to consider this sooner? Fuck, you're a complete waste of carbon. Your blundering incompetence at representing a decent functioning half of a relationship is tragically pathetic. 

"I wanted it to be a surprise," John shrugs. "It isn't too bad, really. I have to move stuff around and stack it. Sometimes I get to hit stuff with a hammer. It's kinda fun."

"You would think so," you say sarcastically.

"If you two are going to bicker like a married couple I'm just gonna head back to my room," Sollux mutters, grabbing an energy drink and a bowl of potato salad Gamzee made yesterday. "Yell if you need me to pepper spray his ass if he gets too handsy," he adds to John.

You give Sollux the middle finger. Both of them. He just smirks. John waves cheerfully.

"What if I'm the one who's getting handsy?" he wonders as soon as Sollux' door clicks shut, curling fingers around yours and drawing you closer. The other hand is on the back of your neck and pulling you in for a kiss. Hungry and thorough as his hands slide down over your buttocks to the back of your thighs to lift you up and perch you on the counter. Jesus fucking _yes_ , him lifting you is a thing, so very fucking much, muscles rolling under his skin to take your weight so damn lovely it stutters the air out of your lungs. You wrap your legs around his hips, knead his biceps appreciatively. It puts you at a higher angle for once so you cup both hands along his face to properly take his mouth.

You're losing yourself in him, everything falling away until John is all that remains and you want nothing more than to just tip over the goddamn edge. But you don't. Instead you slow the both of you down until it's just lingering pecks, acknowledging over and over that he's here, you're here and it's just as real and consuming as it was during the festival. Above all you want to let him know it's not just about sex. As much as you hope you'll get to have him naked and wanting all over you really fucking soon, it's not the only thing you want from him. You want John to understand very well that you like him for all of him, annoying little shit that he is. Fucking on the kitchen counter within thirty minutes of arriving will probably not be conducive to making the correct impression.

So you pull away -with no small amount of massive willpower- and press lips against his forehead instead. John leans against your front, cuddling closer as if he needs the reassurance of your presence. It's ridiculously easy to forget he's nineteen, so young, not to mention his first time with another boy. It's moments like these that remind you. You comb fingers through his hair. "Are you tired?" you ask quietly.

"Sort of," he admits, voice muffled as he rests his face against your neck. "But I don't think I'll be able to sleep."

You figured as much. "We could watch a movie?"

"Can there be popcorn?"

"Fuck yes."

You can feel John grin against your throat. "Deal," he says, pulling back to smile up at you and dammit if you don't want to just _throw_ yourself at him, heart first. You slide off the counter instead.

Twenty minutes later the whole apartment smells like popcorn and the both of you are sprawled on the couch. Well, John is. Nearly flat on his back with only his shoulders and head propped up with a pillow against the armrest. You. Well. You're on top of him, cheek plastered on a pectoral with your hips and legs resting on the couch between his spread thighs. You are blissed out on the sensation of his heart beating underneath your temple, the rise and fall of his chest, his hand curled loosely over your back. You are completely and undeniably happy, not to mention relaxed and warm and vaguely aroused, not like you were when he had you on the counter, but comfortably so. A little more and you'll be all about getting him moaning under your lips and fingers, but for now this is enough.

Instead John says, "Aw, is this a romcom? It's a romcom isn't it."

"Maybe," you allow, fishing for a handful of popcorn and scattering crumbs all over his shirt.

"Dude. No."

"Dude. Yes."

"Aw, man."

"Just shut the fuck up and watch the movie."

John can't refrain from the occasional sarcastic comment, voice lazy and low, but most of the time he's gorging himself on popcorn. It's so inane and normal and easy and it's fucking fantastic to have this with him. Just getting all gross with buttery popcorn and a hand in your hair and his snarky remarks. It's way late and you have to go in for work tomorrow but you wouldn't trade this moment for anything, no matter how boneless and sleepy you are getting. You don't sleep very well, but you'd have no trouble dozing off just like this.

It's just darkness and the flickering screen and sometimes you feel like you could choke on the sheer well of feelings this stupid dork inspires in you, so maybe that's why you're in tears by the end of the movie, hair-triggered by the emotions you've been stewing in for the past two months. And maybe because you are an idiot and the movie often seems to echo what happened between you and John at the festival. And maybe also because you're a huge sap and it's just really fucking romantic alright?

John seems to thinking along the same lines. "You're Emma, dude."

"I don't have commitment issues," you grumble. "I'm just an asshole."

"You're a sweet asshole, sometimes," he responds. A pause where both of you consider how utterly wrong that sounds and John goes, "ow wow, _ew_. I mean. Damn it," after a minute.

You can't help but crack up and he does, too. The shaking dislodges the brimming tears at the corner of your eyes and they spill over, one straight down towards your ear and the other pooling on the bridge of your nose before dripping onto his chest.

John tenses. You can feel his muscles clench when he levers himself up to peer at your face. "Are you crying?"

"No," you growl.

"You're crying! That's seriously adorable," he tells you, wiping at the half-dry trail on your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

And you, like the fucktool you are, response automatically, "Adorabloodthirsthy." And, wow, bad idea, the worst, damn you to the seventh ring of hell. You're over it, you are, but. _Terezi_. And for some stupid reason it's just too fucking much. Shit.

"Hey," John goes, all humor drained out of his voice. He's squirming around to prop himself up properly to look at you. " _Hey_ ," again, softly, fingers on your cheeks.

"Sorry, I'm being a fucking shitcake and am ruining it."

"No, tell me," John implores, finally managing to sit up a little, automatically forcing you to get your legs under yourself, too.

It's. It's not like you and John haven't talked about it. You did, but a lot of issues you feel are better to get out face-to-face, so you just brushed over the topic to make sure he knew. Fuck, you didn't want to have this conversation on the very first night. All you wanted was to enjoy having him with you, revel in the reality that falling in love head-over-heels with this kid at a music festival was just the start. Instead you're rapidly hurling towards the dangerous activity of talking about _feelings_. Again you're a complete idiot applying the supposedly healing benefits of _talking about feelings_ to a relationship you are in yourself. Usually this will signal impending disaster. Because, well. It's not like John is the first person you think might be forever.

He really isn't.

Terezi was supposed to forever. And then she wasn't and you thought you'd never, ever be able to feel like that again. Somehow that wasn't true. There were others. Others who weren't forever, either. Some left bigger marks than others and yes, a few of them were mistakes, ones you made out of stupid conviction that if you wanted it enough - _fought_ hard enough- it'd work. A lot of them ended your struggle with the hideous 'it is not you, it is me' or with no explanation at all, but a few of them are precious still, like Terezi is and always will be.

How are you supposed to tell John this? That he's not the first person you've ever loved? You've loved and been loved more than once. And you don't want to forget about those who loved you in return, however briefly. So you're quiet for a while, focused on the rolling credits. John doesn't say a single thing. And then you're talking anyway, as though he compels it from you with only those blue eyes of his. It's not just Terezi, either, it's everything.

It's Terezi.

It's the boyfriend who dumped you because you weren't white enough for his family to approve of.

It's the girlfriend who had to leave the country and didn't want you to feel obliged to her, no matter how much you assured her that you'd wait.

It's the lover who cheated on you and the one who couldn't deal with your bottomless anger.

It's your mom and your dad and how you had to quit university. It's Gamzee and Dave and Kanaya and Sollux. Gamzee who was your first time with another guy and Dave who came for you when you just wanted to fucking disappear and Kanaya who slowly put you back together. Sollux who's been with you from the start. Sollux and Terezi, both of whom you love so fucking much, still. Kanaya and Gamzee, the polar opposites. Gamzee who you shouldn't have forgiven, maybe, and Kanaya, Kanaya who is family even when she isn't. Jade, John's goddamn sister who you couldn't have, because she was Dave's.

John just listens. He listens and doesn't say anything until you're empty and spent and out of words. It leaves you sitting there on the couch at an atrociously early hour in the morning, gasping, with the boyfriend you should be getting naked with and somehow are revealing all the stupid, shitty things you ever did, to instead. 

Thing is, all John says is, "Thank you for telling me," as he presses warm lips to your cheek.

It's late.

Your head is hazy and full and empty all at the same time. This wasn't supposed to happen, you want to do so much better for John. But. Amazingly enough, you think it's okay, that it's good that you told him. Because he's settling down again, wrapping arms around you until all you know is warmth and skin and darkness.

*

Four hours later you wake up, slightly disoriented and feeling as though you hardly slept at all. Wiping at sleep crumbs plastering your lids shut you realize you've mysteriously been relocated to your bed and that the delicious warmth against your back is a second body. You've woken up exactly five minutes before your alarm is set to go off. When you flap an arm to prevent it from shattering the peaceful silence with shitty music John makes a soft sleepy noise and draws closer against you, the arm around your waist instinctively tightening. You settle back against the pillow, rendered stupidly happy in a single shining moment.

John snuffles, shifting restlessly as he wakes up. You can feel the instant his breathing alters as awareness floods him, the way he probably lies blinking there for a moment to gather his bearings. Then he levers himself up and presses his face against the side of your throat, leaving a sloppy kiss where his lips land. "Morning," he grunts.

His voice his low and scratchy and you smile. "Hey," you answer, tilting your head up against his. "How'd we get into bed?"

"Carried you," John says. "You were completely out cold. And drooling. Your sex appeal was crazy out of control."

"So you took off my jeans?"

"It was for the greater good," John insists, trying for solemn and serious, but sounding woozy and incoherent instead as mumbles into your neck.

"I can tell," you answer, low and smug.

Said greater good is currently pressed up against your ass, hard and lovely even through the layers of both your boxer shorts. You're perfectly aware it means no more than him having a penis and experiencing some healthy REM cycles, but it's nice anyway. After all, you're in the same situation, but if he keeps mouthing at your neck like that, you're going to- _ah!_

"John."

"Karkat."

"That-that's. _Hah_ , my dick, John, that's my dick."

"It sure is."

"You're touching it."

"I sure am."

"I have to go to work in like half a fuckinn _nGH_ hour."

"It won't take that long."

"You smug little bastard," you hiss, face going red and hot because he's right, the fucking tease, it won't take that long. You don't have the stamina John has, not to mention this is all you've had on your mind for the past two months and now that it's finally happening you worry you might just cream yourself if he so much as breathes enticingly at you. Or kiss you, that'll work, too. He can't quite though, his exhales landing hot and steady against the edge of your jaw and his overgrown thick hair tickling your ear. The fingers grazing along your clothed erection are a little clumsy and not particularly skilled, but it doesn't matter at all. Learning together is half the fun, right? Plus the way he pulls you possessively into the heat of his body more than makes up for any inexperienced fumbling. 

Through shuttered lashes you observe him shoving the sheets down around your thighs. His pale hand is stark and gorgeous against your darker skin as it slides up from your belly towards your chest, bunching the fabric of your shirt as he goes. For all their dextrous elegance they're boy hands, arteries clearly visible under his skin and dark hair dusting his arms. Just having him caress you is enough to get you worked up, your voice creeping into your quickening exhales and heavy need pooling in your groin. He's all lovely warmth against your back, his bicep under the hollow of your neck as his unrestricted hand wanders your body. You suspect he might be watching himself do so from over your shoulder and the idea just really makes you want to kiss him, draw him against your front for a good taste.

He won't let you.

You squirm, try to twist, but the arm previously relaxed and pinned down by your body curls up and slides into your hair until he's got a good handful. He doesn't pull, but when you strain against it he's _really_ not letting go, either.

"John," you gasp, voice drawing airy and strained.

He makes a lazy, soft noise against your jaw.

" _John_ ," you say again and jump when he drags the rough pad of his thumb over your right nipple. Yours are not at all very sensitive, not like his seem to be, but it's more of him touching you, teasing out sighs and shudders.

He holds you like that, pinned against his chest with his hand clutching your hair and the other sliding down to outline you in your boxer shorts with his fingers. A leg slings across yours, hooks them down. It robs you of your leverage, leaving you pressing back into him desperately, fighting the hold on your hair to get at his mouth, or at least his face, fuck _anything_. You writhe, fingers clutching his thigh, arching into the hand slowly tracing your dick. Lips lay out a line of sweet little kisses up your throat as his fingers fumble to get under the elastic of your boxers.

Just as he slides under the cotton and wraps warm fingers around you he licks from the edge of your jaw towards your mouth and you fucking _whine_ as if you were made for it, low and needy.

"Oh, wow, Karkat," he breathes against your cheek.

You're arching, back hollowing, body straining. The fingers fisting in your hair are easing you to tilt your head back against his shoulder until he's looming over you. His legs slides roughly against yours to keep you down when you buck ineffectually into the hand sliding from tip to base and back again. Like that he reduces you to groaning and cursing and pleading him, keening when he spreads the slick of precum along the head of your dick, thumb rubbing back and forth along the slit to get it all.

John has the audacity to chuckle, "Noisy, noisy," against your skin, hushed and teasing.

"You sadistic ass-sucking gremlin," you snarl, angry and frustrated because he's not giving you enough to tip over the edge and it's not ineptitude this time, just plain tormenting on his part and you can't fucking move, you _need_ to move, your skin burns and your body aches and you can feel his cock pressed against your tailbone and you can't do _anything_.

"Tsk," John admonishes, letting go of your hair. Before you can turn your chin to kiss him, finally, you want to kiss him so bad your mouth buzzes with it, he pushes his thumb into your mouth. "Try asking nicely next time," he tells you, caressing your tongue as your breathing grows ragged in surprise.

The fingers working you are sweet and clumsy, getting it right and wrong, but good anyway and you're tensing up, muscles locking tight and painful because _almost_ , not quite, almost and if he stops now you're going to cry, he's holding you so close and you've missed him so much, and John's trailing his open mouth down to your nape, gets skin and muscle and hair between his teeth as he curls his thumb over the tip of your dick and you're coming.

His finger rests wet against the edge of your mouth as he slips it out when you bow into him, your nails clawing at his thigh. You are shivering and sobbing words, what you don't know, it doesn't matter, not when John licks at the place he bit soothingly, before coming up to peer over your shoulder again. First at your overheated, flushed face, then at your come on his hand.

You lie on your side trembling and trying to control your breathing while he climbs over you to get at the tissues (which you may or may not have put there for this very reason) so he can clean you both up. Sets the soiled wad on the nightstand before flopping down, at your front and facing you, humming happily as he cuddles against you.

After a moment he asks, "Was that okay?" all domineering confidence gone.

"I shot my load because it was awful, John," you mutter, draping an arm over his shoulders. "What did you think?"

"I've never touched your junk like that before, how am I supposed to know?"

Rolling your eyes you lean in until your foreheads bonk together, kiss his dumb nose. "I liked it a lot, stupid."

A grin. "Oh, good."

"Don't say junk though, you idiot."

"D'you like meat popsicle better?"

"John."

"Love muscle!"

"John. John,  _no_."

"Pocket rocket, then."

"Shut up."

"Or baloney pony."

"What the fuck, stop talking!"

"One hundred percent all beef thermometer."

"Somehow this is Dave's fault. I just fucking know it."

"Bulgin' koala basher."

"Okay that's it," you growl and smother him with the first pillow you can get your hands on -the one under his head. John shrieks and thrashes, muffled, landing an elbow into your ribs. So you roll on top of him to keep him down with your weight and oh. You go still, feeling him painfully hard against your lowers stomach. "John." 

Pawing the pillow from his face he blinks up at you. His hair is mussed and all over the place and the early morning light makes him glow, hits his eyes just right to light them up, bright and strange and precious. The shirt he's wearing, you realize, is yours and _god_ , the emotion flooding your chest is almost painful. You're leaning in to softly kiss his parted, confused lips, tuck a lock of wayward hair behind his ear.

"Hey," you murmur, lips catching his as you do. "Want me to…?" you flex down, bringing his attention to his neglected erection.

"It's fine, I'm still kinda tired. Besides, you're going to be late."

"Late?"

Late for _whoa SHIT_ work is a thing you're supposed to be doing in fifteen fucking minutes and you're still in bed on top of your boyfriend with you dick hanging out of your boxer shorts. You scramble out of bed with John laughing at you. After getting cleaned up and clothed you hurry back to where he's a sleepy lump burrowed under your covers, root around until you find the top of his head so you can press a kiss to it.

"Later," you promise, "I'll fucking ruin you."

You mean that in the best possible way, too. From the way John's inhale hitches, you suspect he knows.

*

For the rest of the day you're on cloud nine.

Also perfectly useless. While you eventually manage to get done what you were supposed to, it's also the only thing you accomplish. You'll make it up to Equius by throwing in some labor-intensive hours of overtime. Your hands work on autopilot and you'll nod when Equius instructs you to do something, but your mind is on John and John's hands and John's lips and John's body and John's nice cock and and John's breathy, needy noises and John's lopsided, ridiculous grin.

You are in so much trouble. _Still_. 

It's different, a little. Different from August. In a manner you can't quite define. John's here. John _paid money_ -a considerable lot of it- to come and see you. John _came back_ to you. John put up with your whining and bullshit and pining -that's what you were doing, _pining_ \- not to mention the regurgitating of your shitty past and romantic failures (boohoo, cry harder) and the fact that you're an asshole and inconsiderate and judgmental and self-absorbed. He did all that and more and then this morning. _This morning_.

You want to make it so fucking good for him when you get back. You're prepared to listen to anything he might want and give it to him if you can, take him apart and put him back together with your hands and your mouth and your voice.

Thinking about it has you rather aroused and distracted and holy fuck this is so fucking dumb and you don't _care_.

Equius lets you off an hour earlier, looking vaguely amused as he wishes you 'a splendid weekend'. Preoccupied, you flap a hand at him over your shoulder as you send a quick text to John asking where he is. As you climb into your truck he replies, letting you know he's back at your place. Fuck yes. Hell fucking yes. You're going to make him scream for you before dinner. 

But then you're standing before the front door and you just feel it, like a cat becoming skittish and anxious before a thunderstorm. Cold prickles in your nape and churning irritation settles in the pit of your stomach. You're about to be cockblocked. Slowly, you open the door. The scruffy red chucks you recognize to be Dave's, alongside a similar pair in yellow -John's. And. Another pair.

Bright red. Neon green laces in one and pink in the other. Just looking at them makes you cringe. You hear them before you see them and surely it is everybody's most hideous, gut churning nightmare to hear their current boyfriend and their ex girlfriend fighting. Inside, Dave and Sollux are sitting on the couch. From the way both their shades are jammed into their hair and loving repartee such as 'you cum guzzling whorebag' passes between them you know they're playing Pokémon together. Apparently utterly oblivious -or uncaring- to the catastrophe taking place in the kitchen and your acid look of reproach. 

Just as you round the corner you have million dollar action shot of Terezi shoving her face into John's and screaming: "OBJECTION!" loud enough it hurts your teeth. John nearly topples out of his chair, blinking rapidly against the onslaught.

"What the fuck!" you yell, slamming both hands down on the table and startling them both. "What the actual cunt sucking fuck?!"

"Hi, Karkat," John says, beaming.

"Karkat!" Terezi snaps, shoving out of her chair and pounding a fist on the table. "Pirates or ninjas?"

"Bananas," you go, contrary to your last goddamn breath even when faced with extremes such as John and Terezi in the same room. The same room in _your_ apartment, at that. You're so fucked.

"Dude," John says, sounding betrayed.

"HOLD IT!" Terezi shrieks and you've never figured out how someone so short and skinny can emit decibels as loud as she does. She looks at you (well, almost, her gaze is a degree off to the left but whatever). "Karkat. I feel as though you are not deliberating this manner with the due consideration it warrants."

"What?" you go hopelessly.

"Your boy toy here," Terezi goes, flapping her hand at John and not-so-accidentally nearly sticking her wayward fingers up his nose, "prefers pirates." 

"Okay," you try.

"No, Karkat, not okay. Pirates are known for… three guesses?"

"Parrots?" you hazard.

"Swords." Dave yells from the couch.

"Johnny Depp!" John adds, helpfully, and you sort of want to toss him out of a window because _seriously John what the hell?!_

"Piracy," Terezi concludes in dire tones of revelation. "Piracy, Karkat. Which is illegal." 

"Bluh bluh, ninjas are dumb," John mutters under his breath.

"Wow, no way bro. Ninjas are fucking sick, alright?" Dave finds it necessary to add.

"Thank you, Dave," Terezi grins.

"You're a butt, Dave!" John hollers.

You have no fucking idea what is going on. All you wanted was to come home, kiss this moron on his idiot gaping maw and maybe stick your hands down his pants. But _nooo_. "You two know each other?" you manage at last.

"Uh. Karkat. She dated Dave. You know Dave? My best bro? That was a thing that happened." John goes, doing his asshole little smirk that reveals he knows he's caught you out of sorts and finds it _hilarious_. You glare at him. He smiles wider.

Terezi's mouth curls. "Yes, that sure was a thing that happened," she agrees. "Right, Dave?"

"Etched onto the back of my skull, babe," Dave agrees, suddenly standing next to you, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans and shades back in place.

"I loved the way you squealed when I-"

"Hamburgers!" John yells loudly, standing with such violence his chair topples over with a crash. "We're having hamburgers for dinner. That okay?"

"Egbert," you sigh, massaging your temples. "Gamzee is a vegetarian." Not that your skulking excuse for a best friend is here to give single honking shit, but you're sure he'd appreciate it if he was.

"Vantas," he echoes and it sounds weird coming from his lips, "I know. Veggie burgers are also a thing. Which we got."

"Oh." You're kind of impressed. "Uh, great. Are you two staying for dinner?" 

"I went shopping with Egbert to make this happen, man," Dave says. "All nice and adult and domestic and shit. So yeah."

"Me, too," Terezi nods. "I just had to stop by and threaten John with violent death. It's our thing."

"I'm lucky that way," John goes, rolling his eyes.

What follows is possibly the weirdest night of your life. This compared to other stellar moments such as Gamzee tripping on acid and screaming in terror at the sight of pillows, walking in on Dave wearing sexy red lingerie and Sollux getting his dick caught in the zipper of his jeans, lisping bloody murder at you to _get it out KK oh please, oh holy shit it burns_ with Eridan in convulsions of mirth in the background. Not to mention you're on tenterhooks because you're not quite sure why Terezi is here, seeing as she rarely does anything without ulterior motives.

Also weirdassery such as John occasionally yelping: "Stop trying to lick me Terezi, gosh!" 

Really.

Fucking.

Weird.

Okay. How are you even supposed to feel about that? Really fucking weird, that's how you're feeling about it. Knowing that she's keenly aware of every little noise and twitch you make has you skittish, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Undoubtedly by design they sit side-by-side, wrenchingly obvious in all their differences. Terezi is short, small and possessing of about as many curves as bag of coat hangers. Her sleek red hair frames her sharp face, her beautiful eyes unfocussed and distorted in the ruin of skin around them. John towers over her, appearing immense and formidable, but there's no motherfucking doubt who's ass'd get owned if push comes to shove. You're not sure whether you have to defend John or join in on the teasing, so in the end you do nothing and feel like a huge ass for it.

Dinner ends on an awkward note, with nobody sure if they're supposed to help with the clean up or not -besides Dave, who strolls off and plonks his scrawny ass down on the couch, because he figures Striders are too cool for dishes or whatever. So you wind up at the sink, washing plates, while Terezi joins you with a towel. Unable to help yourself, you study her neat, sharp features, familiar and dear to you. Her mouth quirks and she bumps shoulders with you. You bump back.

"He's not who I'd have chosen for you," she offers after a moment.

This from any other person, you'd be offended. You're not though, this is _Terezi_ , and you know what she is saying even though she doesn't spell it out. "Me neither," you allow. 

"But," she prompts.

"But butt," you agree.

"The jury concurs," Terezi grins. " _Butt_."

"How do you even know?" you wonder, despite knowing the answer.

"I touched the butt," she tells you in hushed confidential tones. "Tapped that booty way before you even got near it. He squeaked most indignantly."

"Congratulations," you mutter, chagrined.

"Thank you very much," Terezi chuckles, before going quiet. "But."

"Yeah," you exhale, hands slowing to a stop and allowing them to sink down into the soapy bubbles. Terezi has been polishing the same damn knife for the past five minutes. "So much," you whisper, throat clenching with emotion. 

You do. So fucking much. You don't need to tell her what, she knows exactly what you mean.

"I missed your smile," she says, setting down her towel and the knife. You're not smiling. Terezi is blind. When her arms slip around your waist you hug her back. She's always fit neatly under your chin. 

*

Holy steaming pile of monkey excrement why won't they fucking _leave_ already?  

You get that Dave wants to see John, too, and visa versa. Hell, you even get that Terezi wants to stick her nose in it to get a good whiff, because she's your friend. They came, they meddled and molested, now it's time to pack up and get the fuck out.

Seriously, you're giving this another hour and then you're throwing John over your shoulder and absconding to your room. The lot of you are squashed together on the couch, lights low, watching a movie. You haven't even gotten to kiss him and it's not that he won't let you (his eyes fall to your lips often enough you know he's thinking the same thing). It's just that you're absolutely sure you won't be able to stop once you do. It's driving you insane, a madding urge that you can't alleviate, under your skin and in your bones. You feel like a dumb teenager again, fourteen or sixteen, horny like hell and emotionally volatile.  

So you curl your fists into the cushions, aware of John on this deep, intimate level that's all electric energy. Charged and unsettling like a storm rolling in, feeling him even when you're not touching him, the way his pulse jumps at the base of his throat, the rise and fall of his chest, how the cloth of his shirt slides along his skin. 

It's hilarious how the both of you all but revert to the pattern you'd established at the festival. You staring like a lovesick child, John's sneaking unsubtle touches. Right now he smoothes the tip of his pinkie over the card suit pattern around your wrist, smiles at you.

He dimples on the right side. God, you want to kiss him stupid. 

And then Gamzee comes home. Normally the sudden spike in tension would be agonizing, Dave and Terezi coalescing into two entities of pure, raptor-like instinct. Gamzee looms huge and foreboding near the door, eyes narrowed.

After a nerve-wracking beat Dave stands up, stretches and says, "Welp, time to split. C'mon, I'll drop you off."

"Such a gentleman," Terezi snickers.

Holy shit, you're never going to complain about Gamzee's goddamn muffins ever again. Well. Not much. Only on special occasions and weekends or something. As John descends on Dave with hugs, you suffer through a very knowing look from Terezi, as well as a whispered: "Just don't shoot yourself in the foot this time, dummy."

She would know.

You nod mutely.

Just before the door closes, Dave wags his brows at you. Your face floods with color and a rare audible laugh of his gets cut off as he closes it.

"Evenin', my brothers," Gamzee says, speaking up for the first time and smiling lazily. "What're we watching?"

"Uh," you go and come to the stunning conclusion you really don't have any idea at all. And you certainly don't give a single damn when warm fingers close around yours, before lifting them. John brushes his lips across the back of your knuckles. Your _heart_ hitches, lodging itself high and tight next to your adam's apple. His eyes crinkle at you and you unfurl your index to swipe it along the corner of his mouth.

"Shit. Just go to your room already, you're making my teeth ache," Sollux complains.

"Ain't it a bit early to your motherfucking snooze on?" Gamzee asks, flopping onto the couch, long limbs going everywhere.

"They've been making cow eyes at each other the whole damn evening," Sollux mutters, offering him a bag of chips. "It's pathetic."

Gamzee just smiles at the sight of you winding your fingers firmer around John's. "I'm thinking our brothers better get on and goin' with some next level loving to make some sky-high miracles happen."

"That's codeword for: go fuck in your room KK," Sollux elaborates, eyes on the television.

"Fine," you go. "Next time I catch you and Eridan boinking like cats in heat on the dinner table again I'm throwing a bucket of cold water over you both instead of backing the fuck away, ass dribble."

"The dinner table we just _ate_ at?" John splutters. 

"That was one fucking time, fucktard!" Sollux retorts.

"With Eridan, yeah. It happened more than once with Fefe-"

"Just _go_ , jesus shit," Sollux interrupts, throwing a chip at you and missing entirely.

"Go get your physical and emotional merging on, motherfuckers," Gamzee says. "Don't mind our good friend Solbro here, I'm reckoning he's all gone sad and lonely-like on the inside with them two wicked suitors of his up and exploring the watery jungle."

Sollux snarls something at Gamzee that has way too many _S-_ es in it for him to manage so he winds up sounding as though he's attempting to expel all his bodily fluids through his mouth. You make sure he catches your mean little snicker as you draw John along by his hand towards your room. Closing it with a firm click, you lean against it and huff out an exhale.

"You have no idea how fucking sorry I am that all my friends are cocksucking ingrates," you tell him.

"Hahah, it's okay, they're nice," John says, plopping down in your desk chair and flicking on the lamp. "Gamzee made me waffles this morning. With strawberries."

"Really?" you go, moving to sit on the edge of your desk. At this angle John has to look up at you. You like it. A lot. He really needs to cut his hair, it's so thick and wild he looks as though he just came tumbling out of the tornado express. You flick his bangs out of his face, simply because you can.

"Yeah. Besides a lot of your friends are mine, too," he points out. "It's actually pretty weird we never met each other before." 

"I knew _of_ you. Dave always blathers on and on about you," you tell him, recalling how you loathed that, seething quietly in the dark recess of your room as Dave spun out red miles of hosannas dedicated to the dorktastic glory of one John Egbert.

"Seriously?" John blinks, then grins. "Man, when the two of you first started hanging out I was _sooo_ jealous."

"I - _what_?"  

"Yup!" John laughs sheepishly, looking at his hands tangling together in his lap, dark hair flopping back into his eyes. "I was really worried he'd like you better because you were so smart and tough and… grown up. Compared to me."

You can't believe your ears. "Dave said I was-" 

"Heh, _no_. Not like that, but it was pretty obvious that you were. And I was just his dumb old internet friend back in Seattle."

"You're not dumb, John," you say, frowning. "Don't say that."

"It's a figure of speech or something," he rolls his eyes. "I'm awesome."

"You're a wart on the bulbous mound of waste that is humanity, John Egbert," you tell him even as you're reaching out to tuck his hair behind his ear again.

John grins, leaning into your touch. "Swoon," he sighs.

"You better," you tell him, fingers sliding down along his cheekbone. "Actually, I was jealous of you, too. So we're even."

John does a slow blink. His eyelashes catch against the tip of your index. He looks entirely taken aback by this revelation. "We'll just have to share Dave," he amends eventually.

"No, John."

"But, you ju- _oh_. Oh, yeah, okay. No. So weird."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Dave is the best and all. But. You're the only one I want- uhm," he's not looking at you at all, his attention apparently narrowed down to picking at the hem of his shirt. "I don't think I'm- well. You're the only one. I. I really like you, Karkat," he manages eventually, voice gone so soft you have to strain to catch it, even sitting as close as you are.

Oh.

 _Ouch_.

There it is.

The fist punching through your chest and cradling your heart, indecisive whether to keep it safe or crush it like an overripe piece of fruit. It's August again, John underneath you on his back and laughing, grass in his hair and the sun in his eyes, it's sitting together with him in a dark tent early in the morning eating dinosaur cookies, licking chocolate from his gorgeous hands, it's John running after you - and catching you. Kissing him is the only reasonable option left, so you do, fingers falling down to the edge of his jaw, curling under his chin and lifting it. You kiss him softly, all lips gently catching his and holding him, asking a question. John exhales, his breath warm against your face and a certain tension leaves him while another, a better one, replaces it. His hand cupping the back of your neck and keeping you at his mouth is your answer.

It's all lips at first, pressing and withdrawing and angling back in again, warm and sweet and damp, mouths slack enough to cling and part, tasting. Looking at each other through your lashes, John's almost violently blue this close, bright iris offset by the darker rim, his pupils blown wide. Even as he sucks your bottom lip, it's searching rather than claiming, finding the evidence of the very first time you did this and lavishing attention to it, suckling and kissing and moving away from it to the center of your mouth, open and parted, to take that instead. Warmer, wetter, slick and shallow at the very edge of your mouth, darting in and drawing back, then returning for more.

He's risen out of his chair now, standing between your thighs and supporting your head during the kiss, fingers tangling in your hair.

It's not hurried and it's not mindless. It's dawning on you both that yes, yes, you do have time for this. You have all the time you'll need, if both of you want it enough. You do. John, too. And this is not just the hard weight of his dick in his jeans, which is another sort of wanting. You drop your hands and hold his hips instead, finding the hollows along his arching hips through his shirt.

The room is dark and shadowy, both of you sitting at the edge of the golden halo your desk lamp casts.

"What d'you want?" you manage against his lips as you trace the pads of your thumbs over the points of his hips. _Anything, anything, I'll give you anything_ , knowing, trusting, that John'd never ask for something that'd cost you what you can't afford to give up.

And when John palms you through your jeans, his tongue going out to lick at his own bottom lip before sucking it in and asks: "Can I. Can I try?" you don't get it. At first you nod. Then you blink as the implications catch up with you. And when John sinks down until his knees hit the floor you can only gape.

Most holiest of fucks is he going to suck your dick?!

Survey says hell fucking yes, he's on his knees between your legs and leaning in to-oooaAH _OKAY_. Okay. You just let out the most humiliating yip ever and now John is snickering into your crotch.

"Stop laughing!" you hiss, cheeks burning. So distracting. Warm breaths puffing through the heavy fabric of your jeans and his hair dark and mussed and you've haven't even- fuck. Focus. 

"It sounded like stepping on a chihuahua," John's voice comes out a little muffled on account of still being buried between your legs.

"Stop talking about chihuahuas and blow me, you ball grabbing circus monkey!"

John actually snorts and rolls his eyes. It's not sexy at all and your dick still twitches. John dissolves into sniggers again, bonking his forehead against your hip. "Stop being such a dweeb! You're making me laugh and I've never done this before, gosh," he manages after a moment, long fingers going for the button of your pants.

"It's not exactly rocket science," you mutter, not sure where to put your hands because putting them on his head might be a little too much, too soon and you want this so fucking bad and you don't want to scare him. "John. You don't have to," you tell him. Because. He doesn't. So, yes, you'll have a case of blue balls so damn bad you'll be cast for the next goddamn Smurfs movie, but you think it's an indignity you can stand to suffer for him. (Actually, you can't, because you'll fucking expire on the spot. You're pretty sure.)

"Looks like rocket science to me," John's saying as he pulls the tab down. " _Pchooooo_!" that last is a hot exhale of air against your cock and your body breaks out in goosebumps.

"Just- just be careful with your te _ETH_!"

Oh my god he's licking you through you boxers. John pulls back, wets his mouth and goes back to cup it over the head of your dick. It's damp and warm and the noise you make is loud and absolutely filthy so you clap a hand over your mouth. For a while he does just that, exploring you through your underwear, and you think he might be psyching himself up to actually, well, put it in his mouth. You unclamp your fingers from where you'd had them curved around the edge of your desk and ever so carefully touch his hair.

John sighs and goes _hm_ , drawing another loud groan from you. You can feel his lips quirk against the crown and you slide your fingers into his hair, raking it out of his eyes. The hands on your thighs squeeze in response. You shirt keeps sliding down and getting in the way of John's sucking and you can't spare a hand to hold it up so you let go long enough to tear it off. John's joins yours somewhere on the ground and you get your hand back in his hair, petting it as he huffs up your length. It's thick and smooth between your fingers and you accidentally pull it when he presses the flat of his tongue against your tip. Instead of hissing he makes a noise (needy, low) that goes straight to your dick and then one of surprise when he tastes your precum soaking through the fabric.

He pulls back a little and a thread of wetness connects his lower lip and soaked fabric over the head of your cock for a moment, before breaking. John licks his lips and looks up at you, blue eyes and disarrayed hair and swollen lips. A small wounded sound leaves you. Your fist is white-knuckled and jammed against your mouth, the other shaking in his hair.

"Please, please, John _please_ ," you hiss.

He nods, reaches for the top of your jeans. It takes an embarrassing shimmy-wiggle for him to get them and your boxers over the curve of your ass and he actually blushes because whoa hey your dick is right in his face, before going on the drag them down your legs. And then you're sitting naked on the edge of your desk and John's red in the face because yes hello Karkat's dick and his glasses are askew and his mouth is bruised from sucking you and if he's not careful you're going to fucking shoot your load right then and there.

John's kneeling, hands resting on his legs before one comes up to rest against the inside of your right thigh. His eyes jump from your cock to your face, away again, before pressing a tentative kiss against your hip. More, small and soft, a rain of them scattered across your lower belly. That's nice. You're so keyed up and close it's hard to breathe.

And then he kisses your cock. 

Your leg jerks, hell, _your whole body_ simply convulses, kicking against the empty air. There's a meaty smack and John goes: "Ow."

You blink. And then:

"Oh fuck." Air rushes in cold as John pulls away, sitting on his heels.

"Oh shit," you go.

You. You just. Fuck no.

You just kneed/thigh punched/hip checked/ _whatever_ your boyfriend in the face. The same boyfriend that was about to suck your dick for the very first time. Seriously, now would be bloody perfect time for a fist-sized meteor to enter the atmosphere and just fucking punch your brains out through the back of your skull.

This can't be happening.

"Fuuuck," John goes again, clutching his face, sounding genuinely worried enough to jolt you into motion. You slide off the desk, knees painfully smashing into the floor as you drop in front of him.

"Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck crapping shit _fuck_ ," you can hear yourself babble. "I'm so sorry, so fucking sorry."

"Dude, s'okay," John answers, but he sounds thick and nasal and it's not okay.

Taking his wrist you pull away a hand. It comes away red and you promptly flip your shit so violently it is catapulted into an alternate universe because you can't believe you made him bleed. Fuck.

"Karkat, stop freaking out, it's only a nosebleed. Get me some tissues." You do, feeling like absolute shit. He wads them under his nose and holds them with one hand as the other pinches the soft parts together while you hover anxiously. "We gotta stop doing this," John tells you, flashing you a wry smile.

You hang your head a little because all you had to do was sit on your worthless ass and get your dick sucked. "You've no idea how sorry I am."

John pokes you. One hard, reprimanding jab between your ribs. "Stop it," he says. "You're such a drama queen. I'd kiss your dumb face but blood that just came out of my nose is kinda gross."

And, quite to your own surprise, you hear yourself chuckle.

This idiot.

Dammit.

"Let's get you cleaned up," you say, helping him stand.

You snatch your boxers out of the crumple of your jeans and pull them on. Your boner is dead. No surprise there. It's a miracle it hasn't detached itself with due haste to migrate to more promising pastures. Your balls ache. Shit. John walks awkwardly with his head tilted forward, blood already drying to rusty flakes on his chin as you open the door for him. You keep a hand on his back to guide him so he doesn't stumble into anything. Gamzee is missing, but Sollux is still on the couch watching TV. When he glances up his jaw drops and a couple of potato chips fall out.

"What the fuck?!" he goes, scrambling up to come and help. "Is that blood?"

"I tried to suck his dick," John says, only it comes out sounding like: "I dried tzo tsuk hiss dick." 

Sollux's face as he attempts to process would be priceless under any other circumstances. "JN, this may come as a surprise, but I think you did something wrong."

"No shit," John grumbles.

"Shut up," you snap at them both and add more specially to John, "You were awesome. The best."

"KK, I don't need to know, fuck."

"I just, uh, accidentally- yeah. Never mind," you stop because really, you don't need Sollux to know you couldn't handle John's lips on your cock. Maneuvering John at the sink you twist the tap for tepid water and hand him a washcloth so he can clean up.

"I can't believe you cockblocked yourself," Sollux goes on conversationally and rather vindictively now the shock of seeing John with his face covered in blood has worn off. "You must really hate yourself."

"You have no idea," you mutter at him out of the corner of your mouth.

John hears it anyway and guffaws, before squeaking in distress when the increased pressure in his head sends a new splutter of blood down his face. 

Fuck your life.

*

"Does it hurt?" you ask softly, sounding guilty as hell.

His head shifts on your chest. Even in the faint moonlight you can see him blink up at you blearily. The bridge of his nose is a bit puffy and the skin aggravated, but it doesn't seem to be bruising badly. "Karkat, stop freaking, geez," he says, levering himself out of the curl of your arm and rolling until he's flat on top of you. He's surprisingly heavy, pressing you down into the mattress. It's a nice feeling. Comforting. You massage his shoulders, relishing his bare skin against yours.

After the whole disaster you just took him to bed to get some sleep. You're not sure what to do now. Suck him off instead? Fuck, yes, you'd love to suck his dick without a condom. Which is totally an option, by the way. A few weeks after the festival John mailed you a scan of a blood test. _His_ blood test. Without having to be prompted. No whining, no heartfelt vows, no butthurt spluttering. Straight up went and got tested. No gloating after. Just as  cheerful 'no problem' when you awkwardly thanked him.

Hm. What should you do? The mood is dead. It went out, was hit by a bus full of old blind ladies and got stuck under the bumper. 

"I'll try again later, okay?" John promises, mistaking your expression for disappointment. Kisses you soundly on the mouth.

"It's not that," you tell him. "What if I kick you again?"

"I'll hold you down," John says easily, "or tie you up."

 _Whoa_.

Boner's back. That must be a record or something.

John blinks. A slow grin blooms on his face. "Is that a thing?" You hide your face against his neck. "Holy shit it totally is!" He sounds way too delighted about that, the fucktard.

"Some other time," you mumble. "Let's just try not bleeding all over the place, first."

"Okay, deal," he agrees as he tips sideways off of you, drawing you along in his arms. Both of you settle against the pillows, your head under his chin. "It's really okay. You know that right?" John whispers.

And you do.

"Yeah," you sigh. "But if we don't manage to get laid soon I'm going to punch something."

"No kidding," John snickers.

After a moment, you join in.


	3. Chapter 3

"So the apartment's actually Gamzee's?" John asks, nursing his styrofoam coffee cup between his palms.

You take a sip of your own - black - and nod. "Well, his parents'. The whole damn building is theirs. They let him do his thing as long as he keeps his crazy clown ass out of the media." Gamzee's parents gave up on him years ago. There's no doubt he's done some fucked up shit and he's far from innocent, but you feel indignant on his behalf regardless. All they do is throw hard cold cash at him as some form of half-assed, guilt-driven compensation. If they knew him any better they'd realize that money and the having of it is a concept Gamzee really doesn't give a flying honk about. "I used to share a place with just Sollux, but this works out better for all of us."

"So neither of you has to pay rent?"

"Nope."

John gives a low whistle. 

If it weren't for this one lucky break you don't think you'd ever be able to work yourself free of your crippling debt. When your father died the world didn't quite stop the way you'd expect it to in the face of your crushing grief. Death did not turn out as straightforwardly final as it is often made out to be. Deal with grief. Get a grip. Move on. Not for you. Something as mundane as opening the mail a few days later made it quite clear it was far from over. Your father obviously did not calculate being diagnosed with cancer and being stone cold not even a year later as a likely prospect when he signed for loans, mortgages and other investments (such as sending his only son to university). Not that you blame him. Fact remains a lot of enterprises are expecting you to shove your fist up your ass, rummage around and reemerge with a fistful of dead presidents. The hospital treatments and bills don't help either (and they weren't even able to fucking save him). 

Thanks to Gamzee, your situation isn't completely hopeless. If it were up to him, he'd fix everything with one of his infamous signatures (spoiler: he uses a smiley face). You and Gamzee don't fight often, but when you do it's bad enough to tear down the goddamn sky and make it shit blood. When he offered to settle your debts was one of those times. Like hell. You may be down on your knees, but you're not finished yet.

The worst part is that you can't get the sort of job you'd like without a degree, but you can't fucking pay for college to get that damn piece of paper. 

John knows this. You can tell he's mulling over several possible answers and discard them. It's a topic that is frankly fucking depressing to talk about, but he doesn't seem to want to appear to be brushing it off as irrelevant to him. Eventually he works his way around to: "What did you want to be when you were a kid?"

"Something cool and lethal," you promptly answer.

John nearly spits out his mouthful of coffee before laughing. It's just past noon and the sky is a brilliant, cloudless blue. You're not the only couple out in the park. Of course most of them are flouncing about hand in hand or shamelessly sucking face, while the two of you are sitting on the brittle grass sharing a strawberry pie. Your date is not quite going the way you'd planned it to go. No romantic tête-à-tête in a cozy little coffee shop for late breakfast or any of the other activities you'd planned out. You'd made a list. It had been color-coded. It took you two evenings to compile while you had to endure shitty suggestions from Eridan over Skype ('nobody in their right fucking mind enjoys manicures, Eridan'). You'd marathoned several romcoms for additional inspiration. It had been flawless. Genius. Perfect. 

It's folded up in your pocket and it's clear you're not going to use it. Obviously it is time to accept that nothing about your relationship with John can be _planned_.

You're pretty fucking okay with that.

Instead your boyfriend has coffee dribbling down his chin and his nose is slightly blue and you want nothing more in that moment than to kiss his stupid, dorky, perfect face.

When he finally catches his breath he tosses you a toothy grin and says, "You still could be."

"Are you saying I'm not cool now, fucknoodle?"

Blue eyes cut sideways. "No comment."

You punch him in the ribs. Gently. Okay, you also sort of twine your pinkie around his index, grass tickling your skin. He smells amazing. You're so stupid for him it's not even funny.

"Actually I was thinking. Well," you trail off, frown a little harder. "Don't laugh. If you laugh I'm going to shove my foot so far up your ass you can get a good taste of last week's dog shit embedded in the sole of my boot, are we clear?"

"Aw, gross."

"Yes, John. Gross. So not even a fucking giggle. I was considering doing reviews on romance novels and movies? I know that's not going to bring the cash rolling in, but it'd be something that's-" you're not quite sure, actually.

But then John goes: "Yours?"

And yeah, that's right. You nod.

"Start a blog," John goes on. "Talk to Dave about it. Don't give me that look, I'm being serious. Dave's really good at that sort of stuff! He's been running blogs since he was like ten, so he'd know what to look out for or maybe even advertise. Rose'd be able to help out, too."

You groan, you can't help it.

"Shut it! Rose is this nice nerd who likes to read and knit!"

"You are the only fungus snorting lunatic who seems to think so." You are not kidding. Dave absolutely adores Rose, but he routinely refers to her as a 'hella crazy needle-wielding harpy'. Even Kanaya is perfectly aware of the fact that Rose Lalonde is not someone to be trifled with. 

"I don't know what your problem is with her! If you ask nicely she'll help you. You might even figure out you two have a lot in common."

"I don't have a problem with Rose." You don't. You respect the hell out of her. All things considered she's pretty damn awesome. 

John purses his lips. "You're just cranky she outfoxes you," he points out. "You gotta roll with her punches, bro. Not fight them."

"Is that how you deal with Vriska?" It just pops out. Shit. 

John just looks at you. "Is that how you deal with Gamzee?"

"Touché," you manage. Fuck, you really didn't want to bring Vriska up. You don't like Vriska. She's a goddamn psychopath. You don't understand how her friendship with John works. You'd like to try and understand because she's a part of John's life.

"The first time I met Vriska," John suddenly begins, pulling his hand free of your pinkie so he can pick up a slice of pie, "she beat me up."

You goggle. Even though every synapse in your brain goes 'I'm not even fucking surprised' because, hey, _Vriska_ , you rather are. 

"For the text-book cliché that was my lunch money. She was mean and she called me names and picked on me all the time. I tried to fight back and she thought it was really funny," he pauses to take a bite. Mostly he eats the strawberries off and ignores the pudding and crust as much as he can. There's two abandoned slices in the box that he's mangled this way. It's disgusting. 

"Eat the whole thing, you snob," you prompt him when he's quiet for a while. "Then what?"

"Someone else tried to beat me up," John shrugs. "I don't really get it, but she's sort of territorial? So she beat up the guy for beating me up and then she bought me lunch."

"I'm really sorry, John, but that's so fucked up I don't even know what to say," you admit. 

"I know," John says. "But she's my friend."

And that's that.

*

After a day of lounging about in a park eating strawberry pie with your fingers it feels weird to walk into a restaurant. John's all wide-eyed, patting at his hair and tugging at his shirt. So, yeah, he looks rather scruffy around the edges, boyish and wayward and out of place, with his beanie tucked into a pocket of his jeans and the frayed hem of his jeans. But he looks great sitting opposite of you at the table, with the candlelight making his eyes dance. 

"Nice place," he says and then nudges your foot under the table with his own. "Should've told me, I'd have taken a good shirt along!"

"You're fine," you assure him. Even though you put on a button-up shirt yourself you feel utterly out of place, convinced you're being judged and coming out painfully short. Looking at John helps, because the smile on his face is only for you. Under the table his ankle taps against yours playfully. Stays.

"Wow. First official date," John stage-whispers, leaning forward and putting his bony elbows all over the table. "I've never been in a place like this with a date."

"Elbows," you remind him, removing the pepper and salt shaker to a safer location before he swipes them to the floor.

He tucks them away. "Sorry. I'm a little nervous? Hahah. Silly huh? It's just really nice place and it's new. It just feels very. Official."

You clear your throat. "Is. Is that bad?"

"No!" he blurts and sort of half lurches over the table. Your snatch the candle out of the way before he sets himself on fire. "No, not at all. I wouldn't have asked you to be my boyfriend if I didn't want it to be, dumbass." 

Hearing him refer to you as his boyfriend in such a public setting has blood rising to your face. He didn't lower his voice either. You're pretty sure the two young ladies at the table behind you are eavesdropping. Jesus fuck.

"Oh hey, you're blushing!" 

"Shut up. I'm not."

"You totally are. Your nose always goes red, it's really cute."

"Call me cute again and I'm going to kick you under the table."

"Cute."

You kick him. Miss.

"So cute!"

He evades you again and you connect with the leg of his chair instead.

"The cutest!" 

You get him this time and he yelps, just as the waiter comes up to your table to take your order.

"Uh," John goes grabbing for the menu and hiding behind it.

"Er," you agree, opening your own.

"I'll come back in ten minutes," the waiter says, radiating disapproval. 

"Oops," John looks contrite. "We'd better choose something before he comes back. What's good here?"

You've never been here before either, so you decide to play it safe. Not that you have any idea what most of the fancier named stuff is supposed to look like and neither does John. You settle on a steak, while John picks spaghetti. You deny him wine and ask for a bottle of sparkling water instead. 

"Have you ever even had alcohol before?" you point out.

"Well," John grunts, twisting pasta around the tines of his fork with intense concentration. "Well, no."

"I bet you're a fucking lightweight."

"Like you?"

"Shut your face, Egbert or I'll shut it for you."

"Not in public honey."

"What."

"I don't know, man, it sounded funnier in my head."

"Fucking hell."

"Shush, only food now."

It's good food, too. A well-prepared steak is a welcome novelty in your diet, so it tastes great, especially after a whole day of dining on pie. Despite how strange and even slightly awkward the atmosphere is, it's easy to fill it up with idle talk. Really mind-fuckingly random topics, at that, from religion to lolcat videos and how snow is a weird and mysterious something you haven't seen in over five fucking years. John tells you he often has lucid dreams and that he likes to take off flying during them. You are skeptical because how does he even know it is not an hallucination induced by the noxious fumes of his own idiocy. It sparks a good-natured argument and you don't realize you're laughing until he points it out. You stop and look down.

John taps your ankle under the table again and smiles. "It's okay, I love your smile."

There's a raw ache in your chest and your face must be a snarl of emotions; love and an odd hushed shyness and denial because you have no asslicking clue what John sees in you. The crusty fungus that collects under the seat of a communal toilet has more sex appeal than you can ever hope to achieve and yet here the both of you are. 

Now that you finally got what you wanted you're not quite sure what to do with it. You're quite adept at sabotaging your own desires, only to turn around and bitch about how nothing ever goes your fucking way. 

"Do you ever stop freaking out?" John asks. "Just a rhetorical observation, by the way. It's really impressive, I kinda wish I could live in your head for a day but I'm pretty sure the constant mental diarrhea of profanity would microwave my brain."

"Please. Like that would take a lot," you point out. "If I so much as fucking sneeze it'll blow your infantile mind."

"Says the biggest stupidest buttbrain -- _ow_. Ow stop kicking me, Jesus!" 

"Only if you stop that stream of fetid horse shit dribbling out of your maw, it's unseemly, dummy." 

"No, you're a dummy! Dummy. Eheheh."

"Oh my god."

*

You end the night with the classic, tested-and-approved take your date to the movie theatre.

Somehow the both of you manage to agree on a movie and get a big bucket of popcorn to share. John's fingers still get in the way when you go to grab a handful. It's only when the lights dim and he actually manages to tangle your hands together and refuses to let go that you realize he's been trying to hold your hand. In the bucket of popcorn. Seriously.

You slant a sideways look and. 

_fuck it_

The movie becomes irrelevant as you get sidetracked by shape of his mouth and the stroke of his jaw, how his dark lashes are outlined in the glow of the screen. John's profile is sketched in swathes of swelling color and he's so incandescently bright and beautiful, your throat closes up. Gangly and broad shoulders and sharp hips, and really, you don't even know why going to see a movie was even a good idea, it's way past time to get him against you properly. The feeling slowly fills you up, shivery and persistent at the crest of your pelvis, like blood thrumming warm and pulsing, spreading under your skin and can't scratch, itching and needing and ngh, fuck, fuck it, okay, damn it, you want him, want to fuck him, want him under you and arching. It's been too long and you're in love and fuck this, seriously, fuck it.

As if he can feel the weight of your gaze he looks over at you, gives a start when he sees you watching him.

"What?" he asks quietly, ducking close so you can hear him over the roar of music scores and muffled explosions. Close enough to smell him, you don't know why it gets you but it does, your whole skin's reacting to it as if calling out for skinship, close enough your eyes lid against it and holy fuck you're so turned on it's not even remotely funny. 

"Nothing," you inform him mutinously through gritted teeth and turning away from him. This is fucking dumb. What are you, fourteen?! Absolutely humiliating. 

There's a fleeting press of warmth at the corner of your mouth. A small kiss really. Chaste if there hand't been so much suppressed intent behind it, too lingering and too much lip and not enough skin for it to be innocent.

"Soon," he tells you, before pulling away.

  


You can't wait for the goddamn movie to end.

*

Somehow you manage to hang on until you actually get inside your apartment. Barely. John surges up against you, pinning you against the door, hands plunging into your hair and mouth securing yours. It's almost painful the way he presses into you, the harsh points of his hips grinding into yours and your shoulder blades digging against the wood. It's good, it's real, he's there and he's taut and drawn with a desperate sort of tension. You hitch a leg up and hook it around his thigh, get a hand on his ass and the other under his shirt, swallow the rumble of his groan against your lips.

You're hard, _still_ hard and you can feel him against you, rocking into the heat of your groin. Rough and needy and your fingers are clawed as you scrabble to get his shirt off.

" _FUCK_!" Sollux yowls. There's a meaty smack of him clapping his hands over his eyes, followed by a barrage of vicious complaints.

John stops, and you're going to kill Sollux, yank his entrails out through his ears and let him dangle from the balcony with feather duster shoved up his butt, kill him, fuck, _you can't_ , you really can't and you sob desperately against John's cheek in frustration. He shifts, you fear he's going to pull away, but then he braces and picks you up. 

"Sorry," he mutters, bright red in the face, "we're just gonna-" he gets five steps with you clinging to his front, nearly trips over something and breaks both your necks. Puts you down again. You grip his biceps, knees weak and shivery.

Sollux throws a pillow at you both snarling, "Assholes!" and then another. You give him both middle fingers over John's shoulders even as he carts you away.

Once inside your room, you realize you're shaking. Also that you actually managed to wrangle one arm of John's out of his shirt so it's caught in a wad around his neck. You crack up, the sound still a little too edged, but getting better. John puts a palm on the side of your throat and you can feel your pulse straining against it with adrenaline. His other hand plucks idly at the buttons of your shirt. You exhale shakily, leaning into him.

"Permission to strip you down so we may fornicate?"

You punch his shoulder. "That was awful! _You're_ awful! Go away!" 

"Okay." He pulls away.

You grab him. "Don't go away."

He smirks. "Okay."

Asshole.

Both of you sober up when he slowly works open the buttons of your shirt, starting at the bottom and working his way up, knuckles brushing your skin. Keeps dragging them a while longer over the line of exposed skin as your shirt falls open, wonderingly, before pushing the fabric off your shoulders and down your arms. Takes off his own, arms lifting, and you press forward into his skin while he's preoccupied, suck at the hollow of his throat. He gasps. You set your teeth over his collarbone. 

"Karkat," his voice is low, hushed.

You pull away and lick at your lips to chase the lingering sensation of his skin against them. His own part in response and he rolls his lower lip under to bite at it.

"Oh. Oh, man. That's not fair," he grits out. "Come here." 

Taking your hands, he draws you along until you both tumble backwards onto your bed, bouncing a little as he settles on top.

The window is wide open, spilling cool air inside. The only guidance you have is from artificial light polluting the city, setting a cool glow on everything, blue and hazed. Further in the apartment the TV babbles incessantly and Sollux clatters about in a tiff. The sheets rustle under your back. 

Your heart tastes faintly metallic at the back of your tongue, nerves and arousal, you wonder if John can taste it as he works at your mouth, slow and languid just past the threshold of your lips. You sink both hands into his hair and use it to pull him away so you can rest your foreheads together, just breathe together as you rock with him, learning him again, sprawled on your bed with him on top of you, the lightness of his palms curled between your chests unfairly vulnerable. 

The fabric of your pants starts to chafe and you shift from under him so you're side-by-side. You go for his first, popping the buttons and palming his cock through the cotton of his underwear. John pants heavily against the edge of your jaw, goes _ah_ real nice when you get him out of his clothes. Doesn't back off when you get rid of your own, his erection resting against your lower belly as you try to work around it. You hiss when cool air touches your flushed dick and you can hear John swallow.

Finally.

You keep yourself propped on an elbow to study him, his skin seems to fucking right-out glow against the darker hue of your own and looks gorgeous when you spread your hand over it. An exhale hitches against your chest, where John has tucked his head. He keeps licking his lips and there's a hectic flush all over his face, spilling down to his chest to follow the line bisecting the middle of his torso. You settle down and cup his face. His cheeks _burn_.

"You okay?" you ask.

He nods.

Alright then. You lift his mouth and kiss it. 

John arches towards you, hesitates when the front of your bodies whisper together, lips disconnecting from yours and eyelashes fluttering. You set a palm to the small of his back and hitch him closer. His moan comes airy and drawn, yours low and guttural. His stomach presses against yours as hips align and catch together. Notched like two puzzle pieces being matched. His cock feels hot and hard against yours. Arms come around your neck and flex into your hair.

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you're fucking this strange dangerous absolutely fucking stunning idiot that you met at a music festival some months ago by pure chance and who took over your heart and soul and everything you got, fucking ruined you in the best damn way ever.

He moans your name when you slide your bare erections together, pants into your mouth fast and damp and needy. Bringing your hand down where his back swells into his ass, you knead the muscle tensing under his skin as he begins to match you. 

The air is filled with your groans and gasps, the sounds of your lips as you pull away and lean in again hungrily. Somewhere far below cars hum through the streets. A dog barks. A breeze of air gusts through the window and John breaks out in goosebumps, his pricked nipples grating lightly against yours. You hike him up and press your tongue broad and wet against it, drag up to leave a glimmering trail. He moans, loud, you can feel it resonate through his chest and into the cavern of your mouth. Shudders and writhes when you rub the pad of your thumb over it, slick from your mouth -left right left- until it's dry and tight. Curses loudly when your teeth find it, encircle the nub, press in to suck.

His hands are yanking at your hair, twisting fistfuls of it, until you let go with a wet noise. You've earned a heated, disoriented kiss when you line up again, and he's doing that gorgeous faint moaning again on his shaking exhales. He's leaking precome in blots and trails between your stomachs. You fully intend to get him off first and it looks like you're going to succeed.

Getting a possessive handful of ass again you guide his movements, John's coming apart so much he's getting clumsy. His spine curves in response, unfairly graceful and you --well. You dip your fingers down where the cheek of his butt becomes the crease of his thigh - clench - fuck, that's a good handful, oh wow, follow the cleft of his ass up with your fingers.

The sound he makes as you move with intent over his pucker can only be described as _meep_.

His hands clench where they are still caught in your hair. "Uh. Karkat -- _ah_ \- Karkat, please don't-"

You press your lips against the furrow between his brows. "I won't."

"That's weird. That's really weird," he babbles, squirming and awkward. 

You hum soothingly and circle gently, just grazing his entrance, and his hips unevenly jerk into yours despite himself. His face is on fire where he hides it against your neck, panting hot and heavy. For a moment you think he's going to tell you to stop, tensing all over, but then he groans long and _loud_ before he opens his mouth over a tendon in your neck and bites. You kiss the top of his head as his hips begin to move urgently against yours, he slides easily, slick with arousal and then you can feel the first pulse of his orgasm hit him. His come helps ease the friction of your cock against his, and he's still shuddering through it. An ache starts up in your neck where his teeth are clamped down, painful and sharp and making you whine softly. He goes soft and hazy just as you pick up the pace, jutting hard against him to make heavy heat gather and spike in your groin. John helps, releasing one hand to wrap around your waist and bracing the other against the topmost of your vertebrae.

Your cry is rough and muffled into his hair, mouthing at it as you gasp through the aftershocks, swaying into him lazily and going shivery as you come out of your high.

John laughs breathlessly against your clavicle, carefully untangles his fingers from the snarl of your hair and wraps it around your shoulders. You smile and give a last squeeze to his ass, move your hand to rub his back.

Sleepy now.

"We should get cleaned up," John murmurs as you nestle closer.

"In a moment," you tell him, pressing a kiss against his forehead. 

His fingers dance along your spine, up and down. Closing your eyes you fold him closer, legs parting to settle around his thigh. John noses into the hollow of your throat and whispers, "I missed you."

"Yeah. John, I-" Swallow convulsively. You don't say it. Exhale. "Yeah."

"Oh, hang on!" John exclaims suddenly, jolting upright and nearly smashing to top of his head against your chin.

Where does he even get the motherfucking energy?! You groan into the pillow in defeat, then lever yourself up to see what he's up to now. What the shit splattered fuck ever. You need to wipe cold and sticky jizz from your belly anyway. Joy. Your skin's still tacky when you toss the wad of tissues away -how fucking delightful!- but at least you won't accidentally glue yourself to the nearest available surface when you go sleep. 

John's down on his front and across your knees, rummaging in his duffle bag. Little shit probably got his mess now all slathered over your sheets and into the hairs on your legs. You sigh and rest a hand on his rump, because hey, it's right fucking there. It's a damn nice ass, too. You pat it a little. 

Squirming back up, he kneels down on your bed and throws you something. "Catch." 

It's a bright carton box. As you turn it in your palms, frowning, John shuffles closer. "I had to search a lot of supermarkets for those, dude."

Dinosaur cookies.

Shit.

He laughs when you tackle him onto his back to kiss him.

*

His refractory period is insane.

Throughout the night he wakes you up twice more - t _wice!_ \- for sex. Three orgasms in less than six hours and he's still going strong, you've no idea how he even does it or what his father feeds him; the kid's a fucking machine. Literally. Shit can't be normal, damn it. When you wake up from his hopeful fumbling near dawn, you push his face away and growl ( _mrrrrfgno_ ). It just makes him chuckle ( _alright, alright, Mr. Crabbykat, sheesh_ ). Instead he tucks himself snugly against your back, covering your nape in little wandering kisses as you drift into sleep again.

Again, in the shower. (but he brought along a bottle of tear-free shampoo to wash your hair -FFF, _this guy_. So, okay, it's for kids - obviously - but it's in a red, vaguely-crab shaped container. It's fucking awesome and smells like cherries.)

Gets in the way when you try to get dressed, until you herd him out into the hallway in only his boxer shorts and PacMan socks and lock the goddamn door. He whines and scrabbles at the door like puppy.

You're exhausted. Well fucked and relaxed, but just

really

fucking

 _tired_.

John's entirely too chipper for your liking. You're absolutely convinced you weren't this obnoxiously virile when you were nineteen. On top of it all it serves to make you inexcusably late to Kanaya's. As you lean heavily on the buzzer John is oohing at a big bush shaped like a… moth? How she manages itty bitty details like that with a chainsaw, you don't even know. Bitches be crazy. Also scary.

The door swings open and Kanaya's disapproving 'You Are Unpardonably Late, Karkat' moue transforms into a blink of honest bewilderment as she takes in the smudges under your eyes and crazy hair. Possibly the gigantic bruise John put smack dab in plain view on your neck doesn't help. You look as though you're suffering from a wasting disease.

All she says is: "Oh my."

Rose peeks around her girlfriend's shoulder. "I couldn't have said it any better myself," she comments. But also adds: "Well done, John. Damn."

A muscle near your eye twitches. "I need coffee," you say. Or rather, you were about to just as you are bowled over by John who comes to snatch Rose out of the doorway so he can pick her up and twirl her. You and Kanaya leap out of the way (she retreating safely into the house, you into a shrubbery with thorns. A _rose_ bush of-fucking-course).

Unsurprisingly, Rose is dignified throughout John's display, but at soon as he set her back on her feet she hugs him back with no less feeling.

"Rose Rose Rose Rose Rose Rosie- _Rose-Rose_ ," John is going, rocking her from side-to-side. 

"Yes, hello to you, too, John," she agrees, patting him soothingly on the back.

Holding her at arm's length he studies her for a moment, as if he needs to assure him that yes, she's there. "Wow, nice dress!" he exclaims, touching the sleeve lightly. "It must've cost a fortune!"

Kanaya makes a small noise. "I may never quite forgive your suitor for his abominable flannel shirt, but I suddenly find him to be quite charming regardless."

You shrug. "Don't worry, me neither." It really _is_ a horrible shirt. Somehow it works on John. In that regard he seems to be a law in and on himself. Like how his childish pranks are weirdly amusing (as long as he's not busting you) and his lame jokes are pretty hilarious. But not the taste in movies. Nothing can excuse that.  

Done cuddling Rose he bounds up to Kanaya and - oh for fuck's sake, really? Really?! Smarmy little asshole, _he's kissing her hand_. As in actually lifting it daintily and bending over it to press his lips to the back.

It's _working_ , too. There's two pink spots high on your friend's beautiful cheekbones. It's those baby blues of him, you're sure. Smug fucker. 

You shove the back of his head as soon as he pulls away. "Suck up," you tell him.

John's grin is not at all innocent. "Aw, are you jealous?" he singsongs, propping his cheek on your shoulder.

"Get lost, you've molested me more than enough already.  And don't waggle your eyebrows at me, I'll rip them the fuck off."

"Ah, young love," Rose sighs, mouth curling. 

As the lot of you head inside, you catch Kanaya giving John this _lingering_ up-and-down that, from anybody else, would've been downright sexual. You've no doubt she's noting down his measurements, his color palette and whether she could possibly divest him of aforementioned flannel shirt and burn it before the day is over. When he actually lopes after Kanaya into the kitchen to help her out, you know everything is going to be fine.

"Everything alright?" Rose queries, nudging you towards the couch.

Obliging, you sink down on it. It's a great couch. You wriggle into the cushions happily. "Yeah, it is," you answer after moment of mulling it over. "Overwhelming, a little."

"Ah, yes, John can get like that."

"No, I meant," you swipe a hand through your hair and mumble, "just having him here. It's amazing. John's great, don't worry."

Like Kanaya, Rose possesses a rather particular quality of beauty. The sort meant to appreciate from after, slightly awed and perhaps a little unnerved. Sharp, succinct, elegant. Yet the smile that blooms on her face right then is genuine, almost sweet, and she's breathtaking. Then it blooms into _knowing_ and you inch sideways towards the opposite end of the couch.

"But don't tell him I said that," you mumble hurriedly.

"Tell me what?"

Oh fuck it all with a rusty power drill. "That you're fucking annoying."

"Pffff-hahahaa."

"Sit your irritating ass down and shut your swill spigot."

He does. Sit down, that is. Shutting him up, you know, takes quite some different measures. Which are rather X-rated. Kanaya would not approve. 

The girls don't quite bust out the dresses, for which you are grateful, but you suspect you'd have lived if they had. As soon as he realizes Kanaya made Rose's dress he's all awe, asking Kanaya a buttload of really fucking dumb questions about it, but he's so earnest it doesn't matter. It's quite obvious Kanaya does not quite know what to make of him, but he gets her to smile often enough and that's- yeah. That's really fucking good. It's not that it would matter a fleck of sparkling golden unicorn manure if she hand't been able to stand him. Okay, that's a fucking lie. It would've been godawful. You're pretty much absolutely in love with John here and Kanaya is really damn important to you. Nevertheless it would not have changed anything about your relationship with John. He's yours.

Yours.

You're not giving him up. 

So it's a relief they get along well enough. Less drama and tension. You really have had quite enough of that shit in your life already. Only smooth sailing from here on. Yeah, right.

"Karkat," Rose goes, having smoothly closed to gap between the both of you once more. She's cornered you against the arm of the couch. Sneaky woman.

"Rose," you return, cautiously.

"Oh, shush. No need to look so worried," she assures you. You're not reassured at all. "John told me about your desire to try your hand at something other than Equius' projects."

You've no idea where he found a moment to crank open his gob and spill that particular nugget of knowledge to her. Must've known you'd brood on it for a considerable amount of time before actually figuring out whether to even fucking try or not. He's effectively made the choice for you. You're simultaneously annoyed as fuck, as well as grateful. The Law of Egbertism. Ugh.

Mouth working, you manage a nod.

"Well, have you considered exploring the possibility of working as a columnist? Not without gaining some leverage and renown beforehand, but I agree that managing a blog centering around a specific topic or field of interest would be the place to start. Dave has quite some experience, but I think that when it comes to the finished material our respective diction would mean that I'd be better equipped to lend you a hand," she tucks a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. "If you would like."

An hour later you're actually looking down a two pages of hastily scribbled notes (yours made in uppercase, Rose's in elegant, yet neat swoops). Not only that, but you're feeling _hopeful_. Like this could actually bloom to fruition, given time. Tomorrow, after John's gone home, you're going to sit down and have a good look at all these links. As well as ask ar- oh.

Oh.

"I'm going to make some tea," you announce, standing up and absconding into the kitchen. For a while you clatter about, ignoring the dishwasher and cleaning up by hand, rummaging through the extensive selection of tea for a blend. Dammit. God fucking damn it. Damn it fuck it, _just to fucking HELL with it_. Angry, you press the heels of your palms against your eye sockets. 

"He's very nice," Kanaya says softly. "Your John."

How long she's been standing there witnessing you be a sniffling sack of waste, you've no idea. It doesn't matter. You nod.

"He's a bit strange, though," she adds and you huff out a small noise of amusement.

"No kidding," you mutter. "Kanaya. He's going back tomorrow."  

"If it is any comfort, I think it might be as difficult on him as it is to you."

You think about all that has transpired this weekend and concede she might be quite right. John just does not mope about it as openly as you. At a sharp angle through the doorway you can just see John's black hair offset by Rose's white quite expressively. The topic of their conversation seems to be quite intense and both you and Kanaya wordlessly fall into a tense hush.

"John, you really have to tell him. It's just basic respect, he deserves to know where you've gone for the whole weekend."

"I will, alright! It's not that easy."

"Actually, it rather is. A simple: dad, I am going to visit my boyfriend for the weekend would suffice quite adequately."

"Look, Rose. How do I even explain to my dad that, hey, I'm not exactly a homosexual, but I just really really really like this one guy and it might sorta be forever?"

Kanaya takes your hand and squeezes it.

"You're not."

"I'm not. I'm really not. I don't know what that makes and I don't even care anymore. I never ever expected to- well. I wanted to be sure, you know? What if this weekend was a complete disaster? What if. Rose, what if he wouldn't even let me go? Because honestly, this is all really out of the blue and all. I come back from a music festival and suddenly I have boyfriend that's older than me, lives in another state and who he's never even met? What if he'd said no, you can't go? Do you think Karkat" --his voice drops on your voice, whispering it-- "is going to wait for, what, five more years?"

You would have. 

John is breathing harshly. "Rose. Rose, what if he's disappointed?"

"Oh, John."

You don't even know if he's talking about his father, you or both.

"Will he even take me seriously if I tell him? Because it's really fucking serious."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Gently untangling your fingers, Kanaya drapes her arm around your shoulders instead.

"Then you should tell your father, John."

"I know," you can hear him sigh. There's a whisper of cloth that suggests Rose might be embracing him.

So.

You think John might actually be in love with you. Or getting there. It's too soon to tell, you know. Too fucking soon to determine even your own feelings, if you're absolutely honest. It sure fucking hurts enough. Fuck, you are. You know you are. 

Secondly, he's scared of telling his father. You already knew that, it's not like he didn't tell you. It's something he's going to have to deal with soon. But not right now. You've got time.

  


You do.

*

You really do, actually. 

Even if John's going home tomorrow (no don't think about it fuck _fuck fuck just don't think about it, don't_ ).

At three months (well, not even, actually) your relationship has barely begun. This dawns on you when you see Rose and Kanaya interact. They are four years ahead of you and John. Between them they need only a look, just that, _a look_ , barely even a twitch of an eyebrow to convey a comment. Kanaya will reach to slide her fingers through Rose's hair and it's _effortless_ , unlike how you still shit yourself when it happens because wow gee, John is touching you, alert the media and burst out the canons (literally). Which is amazing in and on itself, of course, this nervous adrenaline-fueled awareness that kicks up the rate of your heart if you so much as look at John.

It's actually daunting to witness Rose and Kanaya together. Both tall and stately, Rose all white and precise poise where Kanaya is dark and warm grace. They move together to a symmetry, a concensus that speaks of a perception and understanding of one another that you and John are _far_ from establishing. Compared to them you're still tripping over one another's feet and blowing spit bubbles by ways of communication. 

Rose and Kanaya together is too intimate, almost, too precious, the way Rose will tip her chin _just so_ for Kanaya to kiss her, and Kanaya touching the tips of her index and middle finger at the curve of her jaw regardless. They're in their own world, one made only for them in those moments.

You just think that's really damn beautiful.

You tell John as much. He gives you a really weird look and you _know_ something really dumb is about to roll out of his mouth.

"What, lesbians?"

Rose chortles. Kanaya snorts up some tea and instantly looks horrified, snatching the napkin Rose offers hastily. John blinks at you. You perform a perfectly executed double facepalm combo.

Then you beat John over the head and shoulders with a pillow, until he - he doesn't beg. Just laughs his ass off.

Goddammit.

*

Part of you expected John to jump you as soon as you returned to the apartment.

He doesn't. 

Mostly he trails after you. Looming close as you fix something to snack on. You catch him knuckling at his eyes like a sleepy toddler. Seems like the night of all play and no sleep is catching up on him, even as you got over the worst of it. The whole muzzy, messy and soft look he has about him makes you want to want to scoop him up and cuddle him. Unfortunately you don't think you can lift him properly, he's too tall. Taller than you. Not to mention those broad muscled shoulders of his. Maybe if you braced him against something? Like a wall? Table? Hm. Yummy. Okay, time to snap out of it. 

You take him to bed instead.

John flops up on the bed and grumbles at you when you shoo him up again right away so you can undress him. After a moment's consideration you peel off his boxers, too, before lifting the sheets so he can crawl underneath. He's making happy noises into your pillow when you return -equally naked -with your laptop. It is highly suspect until you realize he's breathing in your scent. It's rises a choking barrage of emotions in you and for a few beats you just stand there swallowing back down. 

"Scoot your dumb ass over a bit," you tell him, voice all heart underneath the rough edges, perching the laptop securely in the corner of the wall before climbing in after him.

It's easier the other way around because of his height. With you tucked against his back you can barely peek over his shoulder to watch the episode, but it's so worth it for having his bare ass in your lap. _So_ worth it. You slide a palm over his belly, breathe in deeply. John's skin is buttery soft and warm. After a day of moving about the scent of soap has worn off, leaving it just him, musky and a little sweaty, but clean. Ngh.

"You're poking me," John complains, wriggling his hips and not helping the situation at all. In fact, it only serves to settle your half-hard dick snugly between buttocks.

"Deal with it."

"But it's right there! Poking!"

"Imagine that."

"I can't concentrate on the laptop like this dude, it's really distracting. Can't you, like, put it away?"

"I could."

"Not like that!" You swear you can feel him clench down hard enough to wrench his sphincter. You snicker into his shoulder. "Just. You know, put that thi- _oh_. Oh!" and then he starts humming.

"John, don't you fucking dare."

He rocks his shoulders a little from side to side.

"I'm not fucking kidding, you dunderfuck, I swear I will-"

" _Put that thing back where it came from or so help me, get that thing away from me you guuuuuys, put that thing_ -HMP!"

"What is it with you and singing brain-curdling songs?" you growl into his ear with your hand hooked over his lower face.

"Awm bumf mweeei miffh hmooonz!" he says into your palm.

"No, they're fucking not. It killed my boner, I hope you're really goddamn pleased with your smug asshole self, you dickwipe." He didn't, actually. He feels too amazing for that. You lay an open mouth kiss right underneath his ear, watch his lashes flutter in response. Settle against his back again. You're keeping your hand over his maw, though, in case he gets any ideas.

An hour or so later there's a knock on your door. You've shifted to lie a bit higher, regretfully removing John's ass out of your lap. Right now your crotch is plastered just above his tailbone, but with a wadded up pillow under your cheek you can finally see enough of the screen without getting a crick. You've been softly running your thumb over his lips for a while. 

After checking whether the sheets are pulled high enough, you open your mouth and snarl: " _WHAT_?"  

Sollux slinks into the room. "I'm bored," he announces. "What are you two doing?"

"Playing dick twister," you snap. "What does it look like we're doing."

Coming up to the bed he peers at the screen. "Oh my fucking god. Are you two losers watching Buffy?"

"Yup," John pipes up.

"That's such a shitty series, I'm not even kidding, I don't understand how you two can --oh! Is this the episode where Spike-?"

"Yes," you and John say.

Sollux sits down on the edge of the bed. 

Another hour later Sollux is sitting with his legs bridging yours and John's, arms crossed on the top of his knees and chin resting on them. He's also eating the popcorn you made earlier, the lisping leech. John's rolled around so he's facing you, too tired to keep focussed on the series. Soft exhales dust your collarbone. Approximately ten minutes later Gamzee slinks in, settles in behind you, drapes his legs in Sollux' lap. One wrong move and they'll both crash over the edge. Not your problem. 

"This is kind of gay," Sollux comments after a while.

"What a surprise," you whisper, not wanting to wake John. Seriously, what did he expect, you're naked in bed with your boyfriend, the bed in question really isn't made for four grown men and all of you have had a dick up your ass at a certain point in life. Well. Except for John. 

"Don't be labeling what needs no defining, motherfucker," Gamzee says.

"You're all such saps," Sollux complains. 

You don't point out he's sitting on the same goddamn bed watching _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ with said saps. 

John makes a small, sleepy noise, fingers convulsing where they're curled against your pectoral and brows twitching. You hum at him, softly stroking your fingers through his thick, shining hair. Press a kiss to the corner of his eye. In this very moment he looks younger than even mere his nineteen years. Without his glasses he's absolutely bare right now, asleep against your front. Despite the defined muscle groups in his shoulders, chest and arms, his spine is bumpy, vulnerable ridges running down between the wings of his shoulder blades. He looks so young. It rouses protectiveness in you, as well as a fierce possessiveness and suddenly you don't want Sollux and Gamzee in the room anymore at all, near him. It's a feeling that grows all tense and prickly at the back of your neck, the area below your shoulders you can't reach. Hackles raising.

Stupid beautiful boy.

"Such saps," Sollux repeats again, but he might be smiling a little.

*

Soft hazy light wakes you up. It's that mute gray, all hazed like spread out shadows that only a rainy morning can offer. Someone's removed the laptop to a safe location, draped an extra blanket over you. Neither of you have moved much at all, John's face still in it's warm home under your chin, your arms both wound around him and a leg draped over a sharp hip. Sharp enough to be actually digging into the muscle of your inner thigh, holy fucknipple. You sling it off, wincing. Your arm is asleep, long having graduated from pins and needles and straight on into numb, dead meat.

The duvet is warm and heavy, the air in the room actually cold, as though someone flicked a switch from 'balmy late summer' to 'frosty autumn'. It's nice. The faint patter of rain on against your windowpane, the wet slosh of cars through the streets. Knowing that on any other Monday you'd have been at work, alternately too cold and too warm in the hangar.

Instead you're in bed with John. 

Hrmm. You press your face into his hair, watch raindrops fall, leak down and converge on the glass.

"I don't want to go home," John says.

You didn't even realize he was awake, he'd been so still. What do you even fucking say to that?

So you just kiss him. It's a good kiss, despite gross morning breath and mutual scratchy stubble. (Also, you'd like to take a moment to complain about how it's really fucking unfair your five years younger boyfriend has absolutely fantastic, evenly spread facial hair whereas you tend to look like a rodent that got caught under a defunct lawnmower. Patchy. Weirdly spiky. Un-fucking-fair. Granted, after a few days it evens out and looks okay. But still.)

*

You stay in bed for the rest of the day. 

Fucking.

Watching Netflix on your laptop.

Sleeping.

Eating dry cereal straight out of the box.

Kissing.

Talking.

John's devastatingly beautiful in sex.

  


He's a little clumsy, somewhat too enthusiastic and entirely awkward at times. But when he gets it right, it's amazing, so fucking good you think you can't possibly survive it. It's sort of visceral and most certainly violent, like you might want to tear him apart with your lips and teeth and hands until you slot into each other, skin and blood and bone and thoughts welding together. It harsh and almost cruel and above all sweet. In those moments, when you line up and drown in each other, you know that after a few more times making love the two of you will be moving like one together.

And then it's time for him to go home.

You'd be lying if your throat didn't lock up hot and tight as soon as you slip from between the sheets to get dressed. John bids Gamzee and Sollux goodbye, thanks them all nice and polite for their hospitality while you watch on in silence.

It's still raining. You feel overtly aware of everything moving around you on the road with John strapped in besides you, eyes darting left and right and back again just to be sure, driving like an old lady just to be safe. (keep him safe)

Neither of you talk until you get to the airport. You park the car and walk him into the terminal. John's knuckles are white on the strap of his duffel and his lips are pinched and bloodless.

Shit.

The screen listing the departures tells you you don't have much time left. It feels like a lifetime ago you were waiting for him, heart in your throat. It feels much, much too soon.

"Gate A," you murmur.

"Karkat."

"It should be over there."

"Karkat."

"When you land, could you text me to let me know you've ar-"

" _Karkat_."

Swallowing, you turn to look at him. 

Fuck.

"John, no," you go, because if anything is going to fucking succeed in destroying you, it's that goddamn look on his face. But as you say his name, the first tear spills down his cheek and you're terrified by how, in that single moment, you'd give anything to erase it. "Don't you fucking dare," you repeat, angry as you wrap both arms around him, drawing him close and ignoring the stabbing ache high in your own chest. You cup his neck with your hand, the other around his ribs and hold on.

Fingers clench and release periodically against your shoulder blades, his breathing is a bit pitched and sometimes his shoulders give a shuddering wrench.

"Don't," you whisper into his hair. 

The chaos and the tumult of the airport around you, the disapproving stares, the scent of stale sweat and easy-to-go junk food fades to an insignificant haze. 

John seems determined to press as much of himself as he can against you, consciously lining up chests, bellies, hips, thighs, even shins, going as far as to nearly stand on your feet. His hold is too hard, grinding bones and pinching at muscles. You rock him, knead the back of his head, black hair spilling from between your fingers.

"I'm sorry," John chokes out against the skin of your throat. It's wet and over-heated and sensitive. Salty and human.

"Don't be sorry," you tell him. "Don't be fucking sorry."

Gently pushing precisely where his waist sweeps in until he leans away a little, you grip both his shoulders and shake him a little, looking up into his face. It's both pale, yet bruised hectic pink over his cheeks from crying and his eyes seem unnaturally luminous. "Don't be sorry," you repeat. "Just. Just don't-" and fuck it, your own voice sort of strangles itself, so you lift your hands to thumb at the wet trails on his face, wiping them away over and over as more tears spill from his eyes. 

"Alright," he sobs.

You kiss his still faintly blue nose from where you clocked him during the failed blowjob, kiss his salty moist lips, _hard_ , still catching wetness with your fingers cupped around his cheeks. Once, twice. Press your forehead against his, eyes on his and then a third, final time.

"Go on," you say, dropping your arms completely and stepping back.

"Okay," he manages.

He does, turning stiffly around and hoisting his duffel up properly again. As he grows smaller the further you go, you have to press a hand over your own mouth. He only looks back once.

"I'll see you soon," you say.

Because you will.

You've got time.

You just have to

breathe

  


You breathe.

*

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] \--

EB: guess what?  
CG: NO.  
EB: :(   
CG: WHAT ARE YOU, FIVE?  
EB: :(   
CG: JUST FUCKING TELL ME ALREADY ASSHOLE  
EB: no dude. when someone says guess what, you fucking guess, jackass.  
CG: WELL THAT'S TOO DAMN BAD. I'VE GOT NO FUCKS LEFT TO GIVE, JOHN. THAT'S REALLY FUCKING TRAGIC. THEY'RE GONE JOHN. NO MORE FUCKS. FRESH OUT.  
EB: bla bla bla cranky caps lock yelling. c'mon we both know you're going to cave eventually.   
EB: you know you wanna.  
EB: karkat.  
EB: karkat.  
EB: karkat karkat karkat karkat karkat!  
CG: FUCK  
CG: FINE, YOU ANNOYING LITTLE RECTAL ZIT.  
CG: PLEASE OH PLEASE DIVULGE THIS UNQUESTIONABLY GRIPPING MORSEL OF WISDOM TO ME.   
EB: it's snowing!!!! :D   
EB: karkat?  
CG: …  
CG: YIPPIE PISS GURGLING YAY  
CG: CONGRATULATIONS. I HAVE JUST DISCOVERED YET UNEXPLORED DEPTHS TO MY STALE, MUSTY APATHY. I COULDN'T HAVE DONE IT WITHOUT YOU JOHN. WHAT A TROOPER.  
EB: so cranky! crabbykat. SHEESH.   
EB: what crawled up your ass and died?  
CG: YOU'VE GOT TO ASK?  
EB: huh?  
EB: but we didn't…  
CG: YES. WHEN IN DOUBT REVERT TO QUESTION THE LACK OF BUTTSEX. MOST EXCELLENT STRATEGY.  
CG: BESIDES YOU BETTER PRAY YOUR SOPPY LITTLE BRAIN OUT I WOULDN'T BE CRANKY AFTER IT'D HAPPEN.  
EB: hm.  
EB: oh  
CG: YEAH.  
EB: i miss you too. you know that, right?  
CG: I KNOW.  
EB: okay well.  
EB: check in the topmost drawer of your nightstand.  
EB: hello?  
CG: HANG ON FOR A FUCKING SECOND.  
CG: IT'S. HUH.  
CG: YOU FORGOT A SHIRT OF YOURS?  
EB: nope!  
CG: OH  
EB: yeah :)  
CG: FUCK.  
CG: JOHN  
CG: THANK YOU.  
EB: <3  


CG: <3  


  


__

_-fin-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and that's a wrap. 
> 
> For scientific purposes:  
> [DINOSAUR COOKIES EXIST.](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/67000467790)
> 
> ART FOR BREATHE:  
> [Amazing full body shot of John & Karkat wearing each other's shirts by bluearturtle](http://bluearturtle.tumblr.com/post/67287374564/they-fricked-okay-this-fic-series-triggered)  
> [John & Karkat by bluearturtle (NSFW) (This is so damn beautiful)](http://bluearturtle.tumblr.com/post/67406288004/hey-throws-johnkat-have-some-boifriends-making)  
> [John and Karkat being adorkable together by bluearturtle](http://bluearturtle.tumblr.com/post/67521736418/yeeah-john-doesnt-really-care-about-the-movie)  
> [Karkat remembers that guy he fricked in a tent by bluearturtle (NSFW)(this is absolutely GORGEOUS) ](http://bluearturtle.tumblr.com/post/67852403189/he-has-to-go-karkats-memory-from-this-au-where)  
> [Idiots in love by bluearturtle](http://bluearturtle.tumblr.com/post/82710330383/happy-birthday-eve-here-is-some-loving-johnkats)  
> [The boys on vacation together by bluearturtle (not Breathe-centric but so lovely)](http://bluearturtle.tumblr.com/post/82111946801/i-was-doodling-johnkats-and-then-eves-young-folk)  
> [John lifting Karkat and pinning him against a wall HELLO YES A LOT by bluearturtle](http://bluearturtle.tumblr.com/post/91136767993/a-sketch-that-got-out-of-hand-featuring-john-and)  
>    
> 

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, my love and adoration to nerdish who -yet again- had my back every single step of the way.  
> And of course my gratitude to my beta, [Pi](http://thepioden.tumblr.com), who was utterly and completely awesome to work with and made it as shiny and sparkly as it is, as well as provided me with invaluable feedback. Go check out their tumblr!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Breathe [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1498489) by [CherryMilkshake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryMilkshake/pseuds/CherryMilkshake), [Everlind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind)




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